‘Impossible,’ eagerly exclaimed Mr Carver—‘impossible. What object could she have in doing so? The money was clearly left to her; and it is not likely that a woman so fond of show would deliberately choose to spend her life in a dingy lodging-house.’ ‘And Eastwood?’ ‘Is empty. It will not let, neither can we sell it.’ ‘So Miss Wakefield is no better off than she was four years ago!’ Eleanor said calmly. ‘Come, Mr Carver, that is good news, at anyrate. It almost reconciles me to my position.’ ‘Nelly, I wish you would not speak so,’ said Mr Carver seriously. ‘It hurts me. You were not so hard at one time.’ ‘Forgive me, my dear old friend,’ she replied simply. ‘Only consider what a life we have been leading for the past two years, and you will understand.’ ‘And your husband?’ ‘Killing himself,’ she said; ‘wearing out body and soul in one long struggle for existence. It hurts me to see him. Always hoping, and always working, always smiling and cheerful before me; and ever the best of men and husbands. Dear friend, if you knew what he is to me, and saw him as I do day after day, literally wearing out, you would consider my seeming hardness pardonable. I am rebellious, you know.’ ‘No, no,’ said Mr Carver, a suspicious gleam behind his spectacles; ‘I can understand it. The only thing I blame you for is that you did not come to me before. You know what a lonely old bachelor I am, and how—how rich I am. It would have been a positive kindness of you to come and see me.—Now, listen. On Sunday, you and your husband must come and dine with me. You know the old Russell Square address?’ ‘God bless you for a true friend!’ said Eleanor, her tears flowing freely now. ‘We will come; and I may bring my little girl with me?’ ‘Eh, what?’ replied the lawyer—‘little girl? Of course, of course! Then we will talk over old times, and see what can be done to make those cheeks look a little like they used to do.—So you have got a little girl, have you? Dear, dear, how the time goes!—Now, tell me candidly, do you want any assistance—any, ah—that is—a little—in short, money?’ Eleanor coloured to the roots of her hair, and was about to reply hastily, but said nothing. ‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Carver rapidly.—‘I think, Bates’—— But Mr Bates already had his hand on the cheque-book, and commenced to fill in the date. Mr Carver gave him a look of approbation, and flashed him a sign with his fingers signifying the amount. ‘I suppose you have some friends?’ he continued hastily, to cover Eleanor’s confusion. ‘It’s a poor world that won’t stand one good friend.’ ‘Yes, we have one,’ replied Eleanor, her face lighting up with a tender glow—‘a good friend. You have heard of Jasper Felix the author? He is far the best friend we have.’ ‘Heard of Felix! I should think I have. Read every one of his books. I am glad to hear of his befriending you. I knew the man who writes as he does must have a noble heart.’