“Oh, indeed; I’ll make due inquiry,” was all that Mrs. McDermott could find to say. “And if I were you, I wouldn’t go quite so often into the greenhouses, or near the men at work in the garden.” “Anything else, Miss Culpepper? You may as well finish the list while you are about it.” “Simply this: that after dinner papa must be left to himself for an hour. He is used to have a little sleep at such times, and he cannot do without it. This is most imperative.” “I was never so insulted in the whole course of my life.” “Then your life must have been a very fortunate one. There is no intention to insult you, aunt, as your own common sense will tell you when you come to think calmly over all that I have said. You are here as papa’s guest, and both he and I will do our best to make you comfortable. But there can be only one mistress at Pincote, and that mistress, at present, is your niece, Jane Culpepper.” And before Mrs. McDermott could find another word to say, Jane had bent over her, kissed her, and swept from the room. For two days Mrs. McDermott dined in solitary state, at half-past seven, in her own room. But she found it so utterly wretched to have no one to talk to but her maid, that on the third day her resolution failed her; and when six o’clock came round she found herself in the dining-room, sitting next her brother, with something of the feeling of a school-girl who has been whipped and forgiven. Her manner towards her brother and her niece was very frigid and stand-off-ish for several days to come. Towards the Squire she imperceptibly thawed, and the old familiar intimacy was gradually resumed between them. But between herself and Jane there was something—a restraint, a coldness—which no time could altogether remove. It was impossible for the older woman to forget that she had been worsted in the encounter with her niece. Could she have seen some great misfortune, some heavy trouble, fall upon Jane, she could then have afforded to forgive her, but hardly otherwise. It was with a sense of intense relief that Squire Culpepper handed over to his sister the five thousand pounds that he was indebted to her. It was a great weight off his mind, and although he did not say much to Tom Bristow about it, he was none the less grateful in his secret heart. He was still as much at a loss as ever to understand by what occult means Tom had been able to raise the mortgage of six thousand pounds on Prior’s Croft. He had hinted more than once that he should like to know the secret by means of which a result so remarkable had been achieved, but to all such hints Tom seemed utterly impervious. Still more surprised was the Squire when, a few days after the six thousand pounds had been put into his hands, Tom came to him and said: “With regard to Prior’s Croft, sir. You have taken my advice once in the matter: perhaps you won’t object to it a second time.”