For it is time now to put plainly before the reader the intention with which this young man had come to Murkley. It was with the well-considered purpose of remedying the evident mistake which his old friend and patron had made. Sir Patrick had withdrawn his fortune from his own family, and given it to his adopted son, leaving his grandchildren poor, while Lewis was rich--Lewis, who had what people call, "no claim" upon him, who had only been his son and servant for eight years of his life, giving him the love, and care, and obedience which few sons give with so entire a devotion. He had no claim but this, and he had expected nothing. When he found himself Sir Patrick's heir, and a rich man, no one was so much surprised as Lewis; but still, so it was, and he accepted his patron's will as he would have accepted anything else that happened in which he himself had a share. But, as soon as he heard of the family and their disappointment, Lewis had made up his mind that he must do his best to remedy it. It would be his duty, he thought, to offer himself and his possessions to the lady who ought to have been Sir Patrick's heir. When he had discovered that these ladies at Murkley were no longer young, it would be too much to assert that it was not a shock to him. But the shock lasted only for a moment. He had not come to Murkley with the intention of pleasing his own fancy, but to fulfil a duty; and the age of the lady, or her appearance, or any such secondary matter was little to him. In all the easy and lighthearted acceptance of the position which characterised him, he had never for a moment allowed himself to think that he was free to abandon his plan, if, on examining into it, it proved against his tastes. His tastes, after all, were involved only in a secondary degree. Duty was the first, and to that nothing made any difference. If Sir Patrick's heiress had been fifty, or if she had been deformed and ugly, he would still have laid his fortunes at her feet. It did not indeed occur to him to separate himself from the fortune, and offer the money alone. He was not a Quixote. To denude himself of all he had did not occur to him as a natural thing to do: but to share it was more than natural, it was an obligation, a call of honour. It was with this view that he had looked at Miss Margaret across the table. It was impossible not to feel that the relationship would be a peculiar one, but he felt nothing in himself that would prevent him from entering into it worthily. Lewis had none of that physical instinct of superiority which makes men despise women. He did not think, as unfortunately most men do, with a curious want of generosity, that the first object of a woman's life must be to secure a husband, and that every sense of congruity, all good taste and delicacy of liking, must succumb to this imperious necessity. This was not the least in his thoughts. When he looked at Miss Margaret, the thought in