“You are young, enthusiastic, well looking and well educated,” said Mr. Black, without paying heed to his son’s questions. “In short, you are fitted to the business I have in hand. I intended to give you a professional education, but if you obey me you won’t want it, and if you do not obey me you may go to the dogs. I suppose your poverty has driven that little low-born music teacher out of your head?” “What has she to do with this business?” “Nothing whatever. I want to make sure that you are well rid of her, but perhaps it would be as well to leave her name out of the question. You say you are starving. Now, if you will solemnly promise to obey me, I will advance you fifty pounds to-day, with which you can fit up your wardrobe and gratify any luxurious desires you may have.” Rufus Black’s eyes sparkled. “Speak,” he said impatiently. “I am desperately poor. I would do almost anything for fifty pounds. What do you want done?” Again Craven Black laughed softly, well pleased with his son’s mood. “Did you see Hawkhurst as you came?” he asked, with seeming irrelevancy. “It’s one of the grandest places in Kent.” “I saw it. The driver pointed it out to me.” “How did it look to you?” “Like heaven.” “How would you like to be master of that heaven?” Rufus stared at his father with wide, incredulous eyes. “You are chaffing me,” said the young man, his countenance falling. “I am in serious earnest. The owner of Hawkhurst is a young girl, who is expected home from school to-day. She has lived the life of a nun in her French school, and does not know one young man from another. She will be beset with suitors immediately, and the one who comes first stands the best chance of winning her. I want you to make love to her and marry her.” Rufus Black’s face paled. The suggestion nearly overcame him. The project looked stupendous, chimerical. “I wondered that you should be down here at Wyndham, father,” he said, “and I suppose you are here because you had formed some design upon this young heiress. Do you know her?” “No, but I know her step-mother, who is her personal guardian,” explained Craven Black. “Do you remember the handsome widow, Mrs. Hathaway, whom you saw once at the theatre in my charge? She married Sir Harold Wynde. He died in India last year, leaving her well-jointured. I came down to see her the other day, and it seems she remembers me with her old affection. In short, Rufus, I am engaged to marry Lady Wynde, and the wedding is to take place in October. She is her step-daughter’s guardian, as I said, and will have unbounded influence to back up your suit. The field is clear before you. Go in and win!” Rufus grew yet paler, and his voice was hoarse as he asked: “And this is your scheme for making me rich?”