‘Indeed, it did, Mr Carver. You would not have me part with one of my few possessions?’ ‘Nonsense, nonsense!’ said the lawyer, with assumed severity. ‘Now, sit down there, and tell me everything you have done for the last two years.’ ‘It is soon told. When my uncle—poor deluded man—turned me, as he did, out of his house on account of my marriage, something had to be done; so we came to London. For two years my husband has been trying to earn a living by literature. Far better had he stayed in the country and taken to breaking stones or working in the fields. It is a bitter life, Mr Carver. The man who wants to achieve fortune that way must have a stout heart; he must be devoid of pride and callous to failure. If I had all the eloquence of a Dickens at my tongue’s end, I could not sum up two years’ degradation and bitter miserable poverty and disappointment better than in the few words, “Trying to live by literature.”—However, it is useless to struggle against it any longer. Mr Carver, sorely against my inclination, I have come to you to help us.’ ‘My dear child, you hurt me,’ said Mr Carver huskily, ‘you hurt me; you do indeed. For two years I have been searching for you everywhere. You have only to ask me, and you know anything I can I will do.’ ‘God bless you,’ replied Eleanor, with the gathering tears thick in her eyes. ‘I know you will. I knew that when I came here. How can I thank you?’ ‘Don’t do anything of the sort; I don’t want any thanks. But before you go, I will do something for you. Now, listen to me. Before your uncle died’—— ‘Died! Is he dead?’ ‘How stupid of me. I didn’t know’—— Mr Carver stopped abruptly, and paused till the natural emotions called forth in the young lady’s mind had had time to expend themselves. She then asked when the event had happened. ‘Two years ago,’ said Mr Carver. ‘And now, tell me—since you last saw him, had you any word or communication from him in any shape or form? Any letter or message?’ Eleanor shook her head, half sadly, half scornfully. ‘You don’t seem to know Miss Wakefield,’ she said. ‘No message was likely to reach me, while _she_ remained at Eastwood.’ ‘No; I suppose not. So you have heard nothing? Very good. Now, a most wonderful thing has happened. When your uncle died and his will came to be read, he had left everything to Miss Wakefield. No reason to tell you that, I suppose? Now comes the strangest part of the story. With the exception of a few hundreds in the local bank, not a penny can be found. All the property has been mortgaged to the uttermost farthing; all the stock is sold out; and, in fact, nothing is left but Eastwood, which, as you know, is a small place, and not worth much. We have been searching for two years, and not a trace can we find.’ ‘Perhaps Miss Wakefield is hiding the plunder away,’ Eleanor suggested with some indifference.