Grannie didn't ask him how he knew this, since he had not seen Andrew Morison for years. She only said: "But if they do prove it?" "They can't, I tell you. If they did, the money wouldn't come to us. But they can't-they shan't!" And father stamped his foot. "The money is left to us, and it's ours. It's ours!" "Maybe it'll be ours by-and-by," grannie said. "I hope it may be, if it's for our good. But it isn't ours yet, Miles, and I should be better satisfied, for my part, if you had waited, and not got all these things." "I shouldn't," father shouted, seeming as if he wanted to drown everybody's speech except his own. "I shouldn't be better satisfied; and what's more, I shan't stop. The money's sure to come. Old Morison was as clear-headed as yourself, mother, and if there's any right and justice in the land, they'll give it so. It's like Jem Morison's sneaking ways to go and do this. But he'll fail. He'll fail, as sure as my name is Miles Murdock. I hope they'll saddle him with costs too, and serve him out." "Somebody has to be disappointed, anyway," grannie said. "And it's worse for him than for you: for he's been expecting for years, and you've only thought about it a little while. But the meat'll be spoiling, if I don't go and see to it." "And, oh dear me! there's the Dickensons coming, and it's half-past twelve, and I've got such a red face," mother said. "O dear me! I wish you hadn't gone and told us until they were gone. What shall we do, if the money don't come after all? You don't really think we shan't have it, do you, Miles?" "No, I don't," father said shortly; but it was plain he didn't feel easy in his mind. Grannie and I went back to the kitchen, and she did not abate one jot of care for all that had to be done; but presently she gave a sigh, and said to herself,—"How ever in the world folks can be so silly!" "Father and mother?" I asked. "I didn't mean that for you, Phœbe," said she. "It's no place of a child to blame her parents. But it is a want of sense. Supposing the money don't come after all?" "Wouldn't you be very sorry?" I asked. "Maybe so," she said. "Five thousand pounds has a tempting sound, and I like things to be easy and plentiful as well as others do. But I do say, and I mean it too, that I'd sooner it should never come at all, than have you all go wrong with its coming." "But why should we, grannie?" I asked. "Why should we? Lots of folks have money, as much as that and more, and don't go wrong with it." "True enough," she said. "But it's the sudden riches after being poor that's the danger, Phœbe. It isn't the keeping on with what one's used to. There's many a head been turned, and many a heart gone wrong, with sudden riches. I don't say but what there's grace enough to keep one through the danger, if we'll seek it—if we'll ask it, Phœbe." And I knew she meant that father and mother were not thinking of danger, and were not asking to be kept through it.