Doris, before whose eyes the most dazzling dreams of wealth and consequence at once flashed, drooped her stout figure and endeavored to look languishing. "If it were not for my duty to the young ladies," sighed she. "Yes, yes," said he, "you must never leave them." She turned, she twisted, she tortured her hands in her endeavor to keep down the evidences of her desire and her anxiety. "If--if this house should be blown down in a storm or--or a fire should consume it as you say, they would have to go elsewhere, have to marry these young men, have to be happy in spite of themselves." "But what cyclones ever come here?" he asked, with his mockery of a smile. "Or where could a fire spring from in a house guarded by a Doris?" She was trembling so she could not answer. "Come out here again at six o'clock," said she; "they will miss me if I stay too long now. Oh, sir, how I wish I could see those two poor loves happy again!" "How I wish you could!" said he, and there was nothing in his tone for her ears but benevolence. As Huckins crept from the garden-gate he ran against Frank, who was on his way to the station. "Oh, sir," he exclaimed, cringing, "I am sure I beg your pardon. Going up to town, eh?" "Yes, and I advise you to do the same," quoth the other, turning upon him sharply. "The Misses Cavanagh are not well enough at present to entertain visitors." "You are no doubt right," returned Huckins with his meekest and most treacherous aspect. "It is odd now, isn't it, but I was just going to say that it was time I left them, much as I love the poor dears. They seem so happy now, and their prospects are so bright, eh?" "I hope so; they have had trouble enough." "Um, um, they will go to Flatbush, I suppose, and I--poor old outcast that I am--may rub my hands in poverty." He looked so cringing, and yet so saturnine, that Frank was tempted to turn on his heel and leave him with his innuendoes unanswered. But his better spirit prevailing, he said, after a moment's pregnant silence: "Yes; the young ladies will go to Flatbush, and the extent of the poverty you endure will depend upon your good behavior. I do not think either of your nieces would wish to see you starve." "No, no, poor dears, they are very kind, and the least I can do is to leave them. Old age and misery are not fit companions for youth and hope, are they, Mr. Etheridge?" "I have already intimated what I thought about that." "So you have, so you have. You are such a lawyer, Mr. Etheridge, such an admirable lawyer!" Frank, disgusted, attempted to walk on, but Huckins followed close after him. "You do not like me," he said. "You think because I was violent once that I envy these sweet girls their rights. But you don't know me, Mr. Etheridge; you don't know my good heart. Since I have seen them I have felt very willing to give up my claims, they are such nice girls, and will be so kind to their poor old uncle."