What more thankless office is there than to be the bearer of ill news to those we love or regard? Not often in the course of his life had such a duty fallen to the lot of Tom Bristow, and never had the burden seemed so heavy as on this present occasion. He would gladly have given a very fair share of all that he was worth could he but have turned his ill news into good news, or else have imposed upon some one else the telling of those evil tidings of which he was the bearer. From London he had sent a carefully-worded telegram to the Squire, which the latter would know how to interpret, hoping thereby to break in some measure the force of the blow which nothing could much longer avert. When, on his return to Pincote, Tom was ushered into the Squire’s room, he found the old man, to all appearance, very much better in health than when he had left him. Mental anxiety had gone a long way towards curing, for the time being, the physical ills from which he had been suffering. He held out his hand, and gave a long, searching look into Tom’s face. “All gone?” he whispered. “Yes—all gone,” answered Tom. He gripped Tom’s hand very hard. “I did not think it was quite so bad as that,” he said. “Not quite. My poor Jenny! My poor little girl! What is to become of her after I’m gone? And Bird, too! The confidence I had in that villain!” He sighed deeply, dropped Tom’s hand, and shut his eyes for a few moments, as if in pain. “You will stay to dinner,” he said, presently. “If you will excuse me to-day——” began Tom. “But I won’t excuse you, sir. Why on earth should I?” he answered, with a flash of his old irritability. “The old house is not good enough for you, I suppose, now you know it holds nothing but paupers.” “Thank you, sir: I will stay to dinner,” said Tom, quietly. “It will be a charity to Jenny, too,” added the Squire. “She’s been moped up indoors, without a soul to speak to, for I don’t know how long. And it’s more than a month since she heard from young Cope—his letters must have miscarried, you know—and I’m afraid that’s preying on her mind; and so you had better keep her company to-day.” Tom needed no further pressing, we may be sure. He smiled grimly to himself at the idea of Edward Cope’s long silence being a matter of distress to Jane. He rose to go. “Just ring that bell, will you?” said the Squire. “And sit down again for another minute or two. There’s something I wanted to say to you, but I can’t call to mind what it is just now.” Jane answered the bell in person. She gave Tom her hand in silence, but there was a world of meaning in her eyes as she did so. “My dear, I wish you would see whether Ridley is anywhere about, and send word that I want to see him. What do you think the villain has done?” “I don’t know, I’m sure, papa.”