The estate was, as John knew, strictly entailed. At Mr. Whitwell’s death it would pass away from his family of girls to the next heir, who was his brother’s son. But all the same for that, indeed, partly because of it, the squire of Hornby was scrupulously anxious to do the very best he could for the property. The farm buildings were either new or kept in perfect repair. He was careful not to impoverish any of the land, but by all the means which modern science had made possible he nursed it for the heir as carefully as if he had been his son. The said heir was a young man of whom his uncle did not approve, and, vain as it was, he could not keep the wish from his mind that, since he had no sons of his own, John Dallington had been the next in succession. It was late in the day when John left to go home, accompanied part of the way by three of his cousins. Tom did not go, but she stood at the window watching until they were out of sight. Then her father called her into the library, where the two were often together hard at work for many hours. “It is too late for those accounts, Tom, I’m afraid.” “I think it is, father. They can wait until to-morrow, cannot they?” “Oh, yes! Very well. John has become a fine young fellow, hasn’t he?” “Yes; I think he is very much improved. I wonder if he has seen his lawyer?” “Ah, poor fellow! No; he has not seen him yet. If he had he would not be as light-hearted as he is. I think his father did not treat him quite fairly. The lad ought to have been told how things were. And then it was too hard for Dallington to leave so much power in his wife’s hands. She has made things a good deal worse for John. He will find it as much as he can do to hold his own.” “I suppose he can sell part of his land?” “Yes, if he can get anybody to buy it. But land does not now fetch the price it ought, and farming is not what it used to be.” Tom was silent for some minutes, and her face became first red and then pale. She wanted to say something to her father. Generally she thought aloud in his presence, such good friends were they; but she needed more courage than she had now. At last she rose and stood beside him, putting her hand on his shoulder, and turning her face so that he could not see it. “Father,” she said, trying to steady her voice and speak in her ordinary tones, “do you remember promising me that I should have that mortgage, or whatever it is, for my portion?” “Of course I do.” “May I have the papers and keep them in my possession now?” “Why, what do you want them for, Tom? What possible good could they do you?” “No good at all, only I should like them.” Mr. Whitwell hesitated. “Do you think you are quite capable of taking care of them? They are worth three thousand pounds, you know.” “Yes; I do not forget their value. You are not afraid to trust me, father, are you?” “I trust you with everything, Tom, as you know.” But Mr. Whitwell said no more; and Tom waited.