Mr. Wycherly sat at his knee-hole table far into the night. From the recesses of a drawer that had been locked for years he brought forth papers; long, legal-looking papers, and set himself, for the first time since he came to live with Miss Esperance, to look into his financial position. He made many notes and his brow was furrowed by care and thought, for his brain lent itself with difficulty to the understanding of figures. Still he persevered, and gradually his expression became less pained and perplexed. For once he did not leave his papers scattered all over the table. He arranged them neatly in bundles and put them back again into the drawer and locked it. When he had finished these unusually orderly arrangements, he pulled up the blind of Montagu’s window and looked out toward Arthur’s Seat. It was a moonlight night, and something of the large peace of that majestic hill seemed to pass into his soul, for his gentle, scholarly face was no longer troubled, and he whispered as if in prayer: "Thank God, I can at least do that for her. Thank God!" The tender moonbeams touched Mr. Wycherly’s hair, white since he was seven and twenty, to purest silver, and there seemed a benediction in that quiet hour for the little house that held so much of innocence and sorrow and repentance. *CHAPTER VII* *ELSA DRIVES THE NAIL HOME* And toward such a full or complete life, a life of various yet select sensation, the most direct and effective auxiliary must be, in a word, Insight.—MARIUS THE EPICUREAN. When Elsa came to clear away Mr. Wycherly’s breakfast next morning she shut the door carefully behind her and stumped—never had woman a heavier foot than Elsa—across to his writing-table, where she stood facing him in silence. Mr. Wycherly was, as usual, bent over a book, and the book was Roger Ascham’s "Schoolmaster." It was his habit ever since he had begun to teach Montagu to read therein for a few minutes every morning that he might start the lessons for the day in a frame of mind "fresh and serenely disposed." When Elsa planted herself full in his view he had just reached the sentence describing the sixth virtue in a scholar: "He that is naturally bold to ask any question," and was smiling to himself in the thought that both his pupil and the small Edmund fulfilled this condition to the very letter, when he looked up and saw Elsa. "Sir," said Elsa, "do ye not want an account of your money?" "No, Elsa," Mr. Wycherly answered, smiling still, although a little startled by the interruption, "not in the least. I probably should not understand it if you gave it to me. Do you want any more? Because, if so, I have some for you." And Mr. Wycherly made as if to open one of the drawers of his table. "Stop!" Elsa exclaimed, "I’ve five pound yet, but I’m fear’d. I’d rather you had it back."