“He had remaining that was dearer than the land, and he bequeathed _them_ to me,” said Martha with difficulty. “If this land is mine now, bear me witness that it is only for the boy--only for little Harry, his heir, for Agnes and her other child. I take the trust since he gave it--but nothing is mine--I tell you nothing is mine. Mr. Charteris, I trust it to you, to see a deed made equal to this will, securing the land to his lawful heir. Now, may we go away? I am faint and exhausted--I cannot speak; but thank you--thank you. Our best thanks to you all--to all who have been here to-day--for the respect--for the honour.” And, as they came in, the three sisters left the room. But the lawyer shook his head when Cuthbert asked him what he knew of Harry’s affairs. “Heavy debts, heavy debts,” said Mr. Robertson--“I hear as much as five thousand pounds--and how can they ever pay that, off four hundred and fifty pounds a-year, which is all the estate yields. My opinion is, as a private friend, that they should sell the land. I cannot tell just now how much, but certainly it will require a heavy sum for a year or two to keep up the cultivation the way it has been begun. No doubt it will be very hard to give it up after such a capital is sunk in these fields; but then unless they have good friends to back them, how can they ever try to carry on with such a load? And I hear there’s one thousand of the debt, at least, at extravagant interest. My opinion is, they should sell the land.” “I don’t think they will ever consent to that,” said Cuthbert. “It’s easy to see,” said the writer earnestly; “deduct two hundred and fifty for interest, it leaves them two hundred to live on--plenty, I confess, for a family of women, especially when there is a person of resolution among them like Miss Allenders; but if she should live a hundred years, she’ll never be able to pay a penny of the principal off that. You are a friend, Mr. Charteris--I think you should advise Miss Allenders to sell the land.” “She herself knows best. I will speak to her,” said Cuthbert; “it depends entirely on what she means to do.” A week after, they were able to lift Agnes from her bed to a fireside sofa. Her fever was gone; but the sweet convalescence of an invalid surrounded by loves and cares, was sad and heavy to the young widow--for everything reminded her of Harry. She listened unawares to passing sounds without, and started and thought he was coming--fancied she heard his step on the stair, and the little cheerful stir with which he was wont to enter the outer room into which her own opened; and then she wept--poor youthful broken heart!--but there was relief in those floods of tears.