John Dallington had his own troubles to bear, although they were of a different character from those of Arthur Knight. For a few weeks he rejoiced greatly in his heritage, while the land of his fathers grew dearer to him day by day; and then he learnt that only a part of it was really his own, and that some of it had been mortgaged. That there could be a debt upon his inheritance was a possibility that had never once occurred to him; and the fact was an exceedingly bitter one—indeed, he had not known how to bear it. Years afterward he remembered the lawyer’s office in which the unwelcome news was told him so distinctly that he knew the pattern of the paper on the wall and the number of panes in the window. “I will redeem it,” he said; “I could not bear to let even a bit of the land go. It will take me years to do it, no doubt, but if I live it shall be accomplished.” “A very worthy ambition,” replied the solicitor, who was sorry for the young man, and sympathised with him. “It is a good thing to have an object in life—keeps a man out of mischief, you know, and helps him to put forth his best powers. I assure you, Mr. Dallington, that there is nothing like trouble of this sort for making a man of you.” But it was with a sore heart and rueful countenance that Dallington betook himself to his farm. He had been so sure that it was his, to do as he liked with, and his fancy had painted glowing pictures of what he would do for his mother, and his cottage tenants afterwards. And now he must economise, and deny himself the pleasure of making improvements, and must be careful of his own personal expenses. The thought made him sigh; not that he had extravagant habits, but because he had already hoped to persuade the lady of his heart to begin with him the new life which was before him. That was out of the question now, and he must not seek her, nor even think of her. So he said to himself as he was moodily making his way home, and he had no sooner said it than his heart gave a leap of joy, for, there before him, in the little woodland path, coming towards him with a flush upon her beautiful face, and her eyes shining like stars, was Margaret Miller. She was used to these woods and loved them; but she would not have been there that day had she expected to meet him there. She steadied herself to speak to him with quiet friendliness, but he took both her hands, and gazed in her face, with his heart in his eyes, and could only say, “Margaret, Margaret!”