But now the fear that this new-comer, this interloper, may, after all her detested labor, by some fell chance become a recipient of the spoil (no matter in how small a degree), causes her trouble. Of late, too, she has not been happy. Philip's coldness has been on the increase. He himself, perhaps, is hardly aware of the change. But what woman loving but feels the want of love? And at times her heart is racked with passionate grief. Now, as she and her lip-love stand side by side in the oriel window that overlooks the graveled path leading into the gardens, the dislike to her cousin's coming burns hotly within her. Outside, in his bath chair, wheeled up and down by a long-suffering attendant, goes Mr. Amherst, in happy ignorance of the four eyes that watch his coming and going with such distaste. Up and down, up and down he goes, his weakly head bent upon his chest, his fierce eyes roving restlessly to and fro. He is still invalid enough to prefer the chair to the more treacherous aid of his stick. "He reminds me of nothing so much as an Egyptian mummy," says Philip, presently: "he looks so hard, and shriveled, and unreal. Toothless, too." "He ought to die," says Marcia, with perfect calmness, as though she had suggested the advisability of his going for a longer drive. "Die!" With a slight start, turning to look at her. "Ah! yes, of course. But"--with a rather forced laugh--"he _won't_, take my word for it. Old gentlemen with unlimited means and hungry heirs live forever." "He has lived long enough," says Marcia, still in the same slow, calculating tone. "Of what use is he? Who cares for him? What good does he do in each twenty-four hours? He is merely taking up valuable room,--keeping what should by right be yours and mine. And, Philip," laying her hand upon his arm to insure his attention,--"I understand the mother of this girl who is coming was his favorite daughter." "Well," surprised at her look and tone, which have both grown intense,--"that is not my fault. You need not cast such an upbraiding glance on me." "What if he should alter his will in her favor? More unlikely things have happened. I cannot divest myself of fear when I think of her. Should he at this late hour repent him of his injustice toward his dead daughter, he might----" She pauses. "But rather than that----" Here she pauses again; and her lids falling somewhat over her eyes, leave them small but wonderfully deep. "What, Marcia?" asks Philip, with a sudden anxiety he would willingly suppress, were it not for his strong desire to learn what her thoughts may be. For a full minute she makes him no reply, and then, as though hardly aware of his question, goes on meditatively.