Frank knew she had found the will, but he did not at all realize the effect which the finding of it would have upon his future. He had not read it like Magdalen,—he did not know that by virtue of what was recorded there, he, and not Roger, was the heir of Millbank. He only knew that Magdalen lay unconscious at his feet, her white forehead touching his boot, and one of her hands clutching at his knee where it had fallen when she raised it imploringly toward him, with a pleading word for Roger. To lift her in his arms and bear her to the window, which he opened so that the wind and rain might fall upon her face and neck, was the work of an instant; and then, still supporting her upon his shoulder, he rubbed and chafed her pale fingers and pushed her hair back from her face, and bent over her with loving, anxious words, which she did not hear and would scarcely have heeded if she had. Gradually as the rain beat upon her face she came back to consciousness, and with a cry tried to free herself from Frank’s embrace. But he held her fast, while he asked what was the matter,—what had she found or seen to affect her so powerfully? “Don’t you know? Haven’t you read it?” she gasped; and Frank replied, “No, Magdalen, I have not read it. My first care was for you,—always for you, darling.” She freed herself from him then, and struggling to her feet stood before him with dilating nostrils and flashing eyes. She knew that the tone of his voice meant _love_,—love for her who had refused it once,—aye, who would refuse it a thousand times more now than she had before. He could not have Millbank and her too. There was no Will on earth which had power to take her from Roger and give her to Frank, and by some subtle intuition Magdalen recognized for a moment all she was to Roger, and felt that possibly he would prefer poverty with her to wealth without her; just as a crust shared with him would be sweeter to her than the daintiest luxury shared with Frank, who had called her his darling and who would rival Roger in everything. Magdalen could have stamped her foot in her rage that Frank should presume to think of love then and there, when he must know what it was she had found for him,—what it was he held in his hand. And here she wronged him; for he did not at all realize his position, and he looked curiously at her, wondering to see her so excited. “Are you angry, Magdalen?” he asked. “What has happened to affect you so? Tell me. I don’t understand it at all.”