Where to go, or what to do next, he did not know. He had gone to see Mr. Cope without any very great expectation of being able to obtain what he wanted, and yet, perhaps, not without some faint hope nestling at his heart that his friend would find him the money. But now he knew for a fact that nothing was to be got from that quarter, he felt a little chilled, a little lonely, a little lost as to what he should do next. That something must be done, he knew quite well, but he was at a nonplus as to what that something ought to be. To raise five thousand five hundred pounds at a few days’ notice, with no better security to offer than a simple I.O.U., was by no means an easy matter, as the Squire was beginning to discover to his cost. “Why not ask Sir Harry Cripps?” he said to himself. But then he bethought himself that Sir Harry had a very expensive family, and that only six months ago he had given up his hunter, and dispensed with a couple of carriage-horses, and had talked of going on to the continent for four or five years. No: it was evident that Sir Harry Cripps could do nothing for him. In what other direction to turn he knew not. “If poor Lionel Dering had only been alive, I could have gone to him with confidence,” he thought. “Why not try Kester St. George?” was his next thought. “No: Kester isn’t one of the lending kind,” he muttered, with a shake of the head. “He’s uncommonly close-fisted, is Kester. What he’s got he’ll stick to. No use trying there.” Next moment he nearly ran against General St. George, who was coming from an opposite direction. They started at sight of each other, then shook hands cordially. Their acquaintanceship dated only from the arrival of the General at Park Newton, but they had already learned to like and esteem one another. After the customary greetings and inquiries were over, said Mr. Culpepper to the General: “Is your nephew Kester still stopping with you at Park Newton?” “Yes, he is still there,” answered the General; “though he has talked every day for the last month or more about going. Kester is one of those unaccountable fellows that you can never depend on. He may stay for another month, or he may take it into his head to go by the first train to-morrow.” “I heard a little while ago that he was ill; but I suppose he is better again by this time?” “Yes—quite recovered. He was laid up for three or four days, but he soon got all right again.” “Your other nephew—George—Tom—Harry—what’s his name—is he quite well?” “You mean Richard—he who came from India? Yes, he is quite well.” “He’s very like his poor brother, only darker, and—pardon me for saying so—not half so agreeable a young fellow.” “Everybody seems to have liked poor Lionel.” “Nobody could help liking him,” said the Squire, with energy. “I felt the loss of that poor boy almost as much as if he had been my own son.” “Not a soul in the world had an ill word to say about him.”