Oliver penetrated so far into Fan’s suspicions—they were altogether unjust, but they were too cruel towards herself for him to resent the reflection they cast on him. ‘My dear Fan, didn’t you hear me say I was going to live and die at Friarton Mill?’ he contented himself with putting it strongly. ‘But what are you to do here?’ demanded Fan, in a voice half mystified, half sharp. She felt a little relieved; but such a terrible suspicion was rising in the background of her thoughts that it threatened not merely to cloud her returning serenity, but to overwhelm it more entirely even than the apprehension of her brother’s forsaking her had done. Oliver at his best had always been somewhat incomprehensible to Fan, unmoved by the things which keenly affected her, powerfully worked upon by influences which did not touch her. They had always been an affectionate brother and sister, but in some respects they had never been of one mind and soul from babyhood upwards; she felt at this moment of doubt and alarm that she could not venture to predict what Oliver might not do or leave undone at any crisis of his history. ‘Of course be a miller and baker, like all the heads of the family I ever heard of,’ said Oliver, trying hard to look and speak as if he were not aware that he was inflicting a shock on his sister. But the fact was he was agitated in giving his decision, and he showed the amount of his agitation, by relinquishing the bodily contortions in which he was prone to indulge. He stood up tall and straight facing Fan, merely thrusting his hands into the depths of his pockets, as he proceeded to unfold his intentions. ‘I shall bolt the cleanest flour, and bake the purest bread, and have my finger in the capital and labour pie—there is an appropriate figure for you; and as bread is the staff of life, and the capital and labour question one of the most vexed questions of the day, I should think the duties and interests involved will last my time.’ CHAPTER IV. A HOT ARGUMENT. ‘YOU will never do it,’ gasped Fan, rising to her feet also. ‘Yes, I will,’ said Oliver, now perching himself precariously on the ancient carved railing. ‘I mean what I say and I will do what I mean.’ ‘What! waste all your talents and education?’ ‘I should not call them wasted; “the better man the better deed.” If I have any talent out of the common—’ ‘You know you have; what is the good of mock humility?’ poor Fan assailed him. ‘Well, granted I am not a blockhead, even granted I were a genius, which would be a gross delusion—stop, I’ll light my pipe, as we’ve got the length of talking the matter calmly over.’ He had recovered his composure and cheerfulness the moment he had broken the truth to his sister, but that did not make the truth less exasperating to Fan.