"He will be none other than yourself," returned Rue, decidedly. "I only wish I were as certain of the time, as I am of the fact. And now," she continued, pointing to the bags of coin, "take as much of that as you need. Master Harry will never miss it; I don't think he ever counts it over, he is so sure that it is safe here. And it will all be your own some day." "What do you mean!" exclaimed Bergan, angrily, starting back. "Do you take me for a thief?" "Of course not, Master Bergan, of course not," answered Rue, earnestly and deprecatingly, laying her hand on his arm. "It is only because I know that it will be yours in time; and as Master Harry does not need it nor use it, why shouldn't you have the good of it now, when you need it more than you ever may again? If it suits you better, take it as a loan, and pay it back, when you are able." "No! no!" said Bergan, turning hurriedly away, "it is impossible. You mean kindly, I know, Maumer Rue, but you do not seem to understand the facts. I have no more right to it than any stranger; I could not touch it, to save me from starving. Come, let us go! I have seen enough." "I believe you are right," said Rue, after a pause, "and I am a foolish old woman. I could not bear to think that my dear Miss Eleanor's son was pinching himself, in the least, when there was so much idle gold in the old house; but I see you are right, sir; and I beg your pardon." It was not without a sense of relief that Bergan soon after closed the door of the old Hall behind him, and stepped out into the cool, fresh night air. Not that he had suffered any real trial of temptation,--his principles were too true and firm for that;--but there had been something in the whole sombre scene--the deserted, death-scented chamber, the concealed closet, the hoarded gold--that had left him with a sense of oppression, which kept its hold of him all the way home. It was late when he reached his office. To his surprise, it was not empty. A gentleman was sitting by the table, with a pile of papers before him, and a weary, discontented face, as if his waiting had outlasted his patience. Bergan's heart gave a great leap. He divined that his long-looked-for client was before him! VIII. THE WIND CHANGES. "Good evening, Squire," said the stranger, in a deep voice,--a voice that would have been gruff, but for the melodizing influences of the soft southern climate. "My name is Corlew--John Corlew, of Williston. I came to see if you would consent to take charge of a case of mine, which is to be called to-morrow." "To-morrow!" repeated Bergan, in much surprise. "That is very short notice."