“You are not in a mood to think so at this moment,” said Arthur’s aunt; “but wait a little. I have known your husband longer than you have; I am slightly better acquainted with the world, and the men and women in it, than you are; and I want to tell you, that if Arthur and Mr. Black are much together, my nephew will make ducks and drakes of Berrie Down, and you and he and the children won’t have sixpence a year.” It was not a pleasant picture to contemplate. Let a woman be as little sordid as she please, still the interest on sixpence paid quarterly must seem an insufficient income; and Heather sat silent for a minute considering Miss Hope’s words. She was a wise wife, though a loyal; and though her companion had hurt and irritated her, still she would not let the bark containing Arthur Dudley’s fortune go down, if timely knowledge could prevent its doing so. “What is the danger?” she asked at length; “what is the precise danger you think an intimacy with Mr. Black involves?” “His drawing Arthur into some of his schemes,” was the reply. “You know, of course, Mr. Black is a man who has always lived by his wits.” “No, I do not,” answered Heather. “I should have thought they would have yielded him an insufficient income.” “On the contrary, they have yielded him a very good income,” said Miss Hope; “and for this reason, that he cannot be put down. His impudence and, I may add, his energy, are inexhaustible. He is like a cork—he will float where much more valuable people founder. Now, if Arthur go with him, Arthur will founder.” “How do you mean, go with him?” asked Heather. “Join him, embark in any of his numerous speculations. Wait a moment; I have got a letter concerning our friend in my pocket. Let me turn the key in your door first, to keep out some of those irrepressible people whom I hear coming in search of you. I am not going to show you that letter, but I will read you a few paragraphs out of it. There, I told you—knock away—who’s there?—what do you want?” “May I come in?” asked Mrs. Ormson, vainly trying to open the door. “Is Heather to be seen?” “No,” almost screamed Miss Hope; “she is lying down with a very bad headache, and must not be disturbed.” “May I not speak to her for a moment?” “Certainly not; I will come downstairs presently and hear all you have got to say.” “That you won’t,” thought Mrs. Ormson. “Now, do go away, please Mrs. Ormson, and tell your daughter not to come worrying. There, that’s a good riddance; how frightened you look, child!” “She will be so angry—so offended.” “Let her be offended. Is the house not your own? Have you no right to ten minutes’ quiet in the day? Are you to be at the beck and call of a parcel of people who would like you to slave for their amusement? I’m out of patience with it. And, besides, your head _is_ aching. Don’t contradict me; I know better.”