"And how do you suppose we have lived?" said the squire, who was feeling all that undue sense of irritation which guilty people know so well. "How have we had our bread and butter? How has the house been kept up? How have the wages been met? I suppose you thought that that garden of yours--those vegetables and fruit--have kept everything going? That's all a woman knows. Besides, I've been unlucky--two speculations have failed--every penny I put in lost in them. Now, what's the matter, Frances? You have a very unpleasant manner of staring." "There was my mother's money," said Frances, who was struggling hard to keep herself calm. "That was always supposed to bring in something over two hundred pounds a year. I thought--I imagined--that with the help I was able to give from the garden and the poultry yard that we--we lived within our means." Her lips trembled slightly as she spoke. Fluff was playing "Sweethearts" on her guitar, and Arnold was leaning with his arms folded against the trunk of a wide-spreading oak-tree. Was he listening to Fluff, or waiting for Frances? She felt like a person struggling through a horrible nightmare. "I thought we lived within our means," she said, faintly. "Just like you--women are always imagining things. We have no means to live on; your mother's money has long vanished--it was lost in that silver mine in Peru. And the greater part of the six thousand pounds lent by Spens has one way or another pretty nearly shared the same fate. I've been a very unlucky man, Frances, and if your mother were here, she'd pity me. I've had no one to sympathize with me since her death." "I do, father," said his daughter. She went up and put her arms round his old neck. "It was a shock, and I felt half stunned. But I fully sympathize." "Not that I am going to sell the Firs," said the squire, not returning Frances's embrace, but allowing her to take his limp hand within her own. "No, no; I've no idea of that. Spens and his client, whoever he is, must wait for their money, and that's what you have got to see him about, Frances. Come, now, you must make the best terms you can with Spens--a woman can do what she likes with a man when she knows how to manage." "But what am I to say, father?" "Say? Why, that's your lookout. Never heard of a woman yet who couldn't find words. Say? Anything in the world you please, provided you give him to clearly to understand that come what may I will not sell the Firs." Frances stood still for two whole minutes. During this time she was thinking deeply--so deeply that she forgot the man who was waiting outside--she forgot everything but the great and terrible fact that, notwithstanding all her care and all her toil, beggary was staring them in the face.