"All of them. I will say good-night, mademoiselle; I have much to attend to. I shall hope to find you well when I return." What a strange fascination her beauty had! I remember it with a shudder. Her face haunted me all night; I could not forget it. The following morning I returned to London. I had yet to break the news of our fortune to Clare, and make arrangements for our journey to Crown Anstey. People who wish to be philosophers tell you money is nothing. Certainly, as far as the spiritual and higher, holier interests of life go, it is not; but as far as this world is concerned, it is almost everything. I had been poor and friendless in London, and then it had seemed to me a desert; now I had money, it was another place--bright, cheerful, every one kind and friendly. I seemed to float in sunshine; the very air around me was elastic, full of hope; every step was a pleasure. What made the difference? I was poor, and now I had money. Clare was pleased to see me; she cried out in astonishment at my black clothes, so new and glossy. "Edgar," she said, "I cannot understand you. You have money, clothes. How is it? What has happened?" I knelt down by her side and took her in my arms. "Clare," I said, "God has been very kind to us. All of our poverty and privations are ended. Will you be calm and brave if I tell you what it is?" "They have taken you into partnership!" she cried, rapturously. "They have found out how clever and good you are!" In the midst of my agitation I laughed at this very unbusiness-like idea. "It is better than that, Clare. There need be no more business, no more work for me. You remember hearing my mother speak of my father's cousin, Sir Barnard Trevelyan, of Crown Anstey?" "Yes, I remember it," she said. "I had almost forgotten." "He is dead, and, sad to say, both his sons are dead. One died with him, and one died years ago. Now do you understand?" "No," she replied. "They cannot have left us anything, because they did not know us." "Sir Barnard and his only son died together, and the heir to Crown Anstey, the title and the whole of that vast fortune is--myself." "You are not jesting, Edgar?" "No; I am telling you the simple, perfect truth." And then, when she had recovered from what to her was really a shock, I gave her the whole history. "I hope you will like Mademoiselle, Clare. She is so utterly friendless and alone that, unless we keep her with us, I do not know what is to become of her." "I shall be sure to like her," she said. "My heart is so full of happiness that I shall love every one. O, Edgar, if I could but get well!" Yes, that was the one drawback to our happiness. The bright, sweet sister, who would have enjoyed our prosperity so much, was a helpless invalid.