“You can do nothing. Come home with me,” said Tom. “I must see a magistrate. I have something to tell him,” answered Margaret. “It is very important, and must be told at once.” “There is no magistrate nearer than my father, and he is at Scourby to-day. What is it, Margaret?” “Do you think the walls are safe? There is something inside one of them, something that belongs to your Cousin John; and I am afraid that if that wall comes down, all these people would be tempted to take it.” Tom looked at her friend as if she thought Margaret must be going mad too. “John also is in great distress,” she said, “for my aunt is—very ill.” “Will you drive me to Scourby first, Tom, and let us find your father? I must have some one to act for me now, for John’s sake,” said Margaret. It was well for her that Mr. Whitwell happened not to be in London that day. Margaret told him her strange story in a few words. It was like bringing an old-time romance into modern prosaic days. “I must not act alone; I must get a brother-magistrate to come with me and a few policemen,” he said. “Will you go home with Tom, Margaret, and leave it to me?” Margaret was very willing to do that; she had much to hear from Tom, and much to tell her too; and their confidences were more lengthened than their drive. “Poor John! what a terrible thing it is for him!” she said. “And poor Mrs. Hunter, too! I think it must have been her mental deficiency which caused her so to dislike me.” Tom could not help smiling, but Margaret did not see the joke, until Tom said, “I agree with you, dear, that no one in his or her sober senses could help liking you.” “Oh, Tom, how can you joke at such a time?” “Indeed, I do not know, Madge, unless it is because of my inherent wickedness. But I assure you that I do not feel very merry. It is a sad enough time for us all. You must marry John now, Margaret. You cannot do otherwise if you have a woman’s heart, or indeed a heart of any sort.” “How can I? We have only just commenced our home in Yorkshire, and the man, whoever he is, will hold me to my agreement. Not that I am necessary there, for the real, moving spirit of the thing is Miss Wentworth. And as for that Andromeda Jones, whom Mary sent, she is invaluable. She will make a most clever woman; she can influence those girls as none of us can; she knows them and their ways so thoroughly; and she loves them, and they love her.” “I expect she is what she is in consequence of the Craighelbyl training. That is the place in which good characters are made.” “It is one of the places; and our High Seathorpe is another.” “How is your enterprise there going to answer, really?”