“But I haven’t told you the worst yet, Jenny,” he said at last. “Oh! papa.” “Five thousand pounds of your Aunt Fanny’s money has been lost in the crash. She had entrusted me with the money to do the best I could for her, and that’s the result. She will be at Pincote in less than a week from now, and the first thing she will do, after she has taken off her bonnet and changed her boots, will be to ask me for her money. She will ask me for her money, and what am I to say to her?” “Good gracious, papa! Aunt Fanny is your own sister, and surely she, of all people in the world, would be the last to trouble you for her money.” “She would be the first,” said the Squire, fiercely. “I’d sooner, far sooner, be indebted to the veriest stranger than to her. You don’t know your aunt as I know her. I should never hear the last of it. I should have no peace of my life. Day and night my turpitude—my vile criminality, as she would call it—would be dinned into my ears, till I should be driven half crazy. And not only that: your Aunt Fanny is a woman who can never keep a secret. To one confidential friend after another the whole affair would be whispered, with sundry embellishments of her own, till at last the whole country side would know of it, and I could never hold up my head in society again.” “As I understand the case, papa, you want to raise five thousand pounds within the next few days?” “That is precisely what I want.” “Then why not ask Mr. Cope? Surely he would not refuse to lend it to you.” “I am not so sure about that,” said Mr. Culpepper, dryly. “Cope has not been like the same man to me of late that he used to be. The old ship is beginning to leak, and the rats are deserting it. I suppose I shall be compelled to ask him, but I would almost sooner lose my right hand than do it.” “There’s Mr. Bristow,” suggested Jane, timidly. “Why not speak to him? He might, perhaps, find some means of helping you out of your difficulty.” “How can a man that’s not worth five thousand pence be of any use to a man who wants five thousand pounds?” asked the Squire, contemptuously. “No, no; Bristow’s all very well in his way. A decent, good-natured young fellow, with all his wits about him, but of no use whatever at a crisis like the present.” “Is there not such a thing as a mortgage?” asked Jane. “Could you not raise some money on the estate?” “When my father lay on his deathbed,” said the Squire, gravely, “he made me take a solemn oath that I would never raise a penny by mortgage on the estate, and I would rather suffer anything and everything than break that promise. But it’s high time we were both in bed. You look worn-out for want of sleep, and I don’t feel over bright myself. Kiss me, dearie, and let us say good-night, or rather good-morning. We must hope for the best, and at present that seems the only thing we can do.”