“I have never had the courage to speak to you of your father, although, before he died, he made me promise to tell you the whole truth. I prefer to write it, so that it may serve, if necessary, as evidence. Your father was my eldest son, Rupert. It is needless to tell you anything about your mother, because I have often spoken to you about her. You will understand her better still when you read the letters which my executor will give to you after my death and look at the miniature which was painted of her for your father. He wished to marry her. She was devoted to me, and devoted to your father. She refused to marry him steadfastly, but she might have done so had I not exacted a sort of pledge from her. And then, they ran away together and lived for a year in a queer little village called Fishpingle, where you were born, and where your mother died. I promised her to look after you and to educate you. That was her great wish—that you should rise above her level. I sign myself for the first and last time “Your loving Grandmother, “ALICIA POMFRET.” The Squire replaced the letter in its envelope. As he gave it back to Fishpingle, he asked hoarsely: “Have you forgiven our grandmother?” “There was nothing to forgive. My dear lady, had her son wished to marry Prudence, would have done the same. I am Pomfret enough to understand that.” The Squire nodded, murmuring: “And yet, if my father had got his way, you would be sitting in this chair—the Lord of the Manor.” Fishpingle repeated the words softly: “The Lord of the Manor.” Sir Geoffrey stood up. He moved slowly towards Fishpingle, slightly bent, with bowed head. Then he held out his hand. “My—brother.” He raised his head and his voice: “And before God, Ben, you have been my brother. For more than fifty years.” “Happy years!” “Ben, what can I do for you—what _can_ I do?” Fishpingle answered simply: “The thing nearest my heart is the happiness of your son, who will stand here when we are gone.” Sir Geoffrey said hurriedly: “I know that, I know that. I must call my wife.” “You mean to tell her?” “I must.” “Nobody else.” “If you insist. But—have I found a brother only to lose him?” “You know what I wish—to remain here, to help you, to help Mr. Lionel.” The Squire pressed his hand, too moved to speak. He turned abruptly, walked to the door, and opened it. “Mary—Mary—I want you.” She must have known that she would be wanted, for she had remained near him. Her voice floated through the open door: “I am coming, Geoffrey.” Lady Pomfret entered. She glanced at her husband’s face, and then at Fishpingle standing erect near the desk. Sir Geoffrey closed the door. He was not a man to do things grudgingly. The scales had fallen from his eyes. He saw Fishpingle as clearly as his wife saw him. In a firm voice, he said to Lady Pomfret: