"I know what a will is," said Una, with a smile. "It is the paper which a man leaves when he dies, saying to whom he wishes his money to go. And Stephen----" "You should say Mr. Stephen, or Mr. Davenant, my dear," she said. "I don't mind your calling him Stephen, but--but----" She looked round in despair. How was she to explain to this frank, beautiful girl the laws of etiquette? "But everyone who speaks of those to whom they are not related say Mr., or Mrs., or Miss." "I see," said Una. "Then Mr. Davenant expects to get his uncle's money, and then he will be rich. I am very glad. And he does not live in the same house with you?" "No," replied Mrs. Davenant--and surely there was something like a tone of relief in her voice--"no; when he is in London he lives in chambers in rooms by himself; but he has been staying at Hurst Leigh." "At Hurst Leigh!" echoed Una, softly, and a faint color stole over her face. How wonderful it was! That other--he whose face was always with her, was going there! "At Hurst Leigh," repeated Mrs. Davenant. "Do you know it?" Una shook her head silently. She longed to ask more, to ask if Mrs. Davenant knew the youth who had taken shelter in the cottage, but she simply could not. Love is a wondrous schoolmaster--he had already taught her frank, out-spoken nature the art of concealment. "It is a grand place," continued Mrs. Davenant. "A great, huge place," and she shivered faintly, "and--and if Squire Davenant has left it to Stephen, he will live there." "You don't like it?" said Una, with acute intuition. "No," replied Mrs. Davenant, with unusual earnestness. "No, oh no! it frightens me. I was never there but once, and then I was glad--very, very glad to get away, grand and beautiful as it was!" "But why?" asked Una, eagerly. "Because--have you never heard of Ralph Davenant?" Una hesitated a moment. She had heard of him. "He was a wonderful man, but terrible to me. His eyes looked through one, and then he had been so wicked." She stopped short, and Una sighed. So there was another person who was wicked. "Why are men so wicked?" she asked, in a low voice. "I--I--don't know. What a singular question," said Mrs. Davenant. "No one knows. Perhaps it is because they have different natures to ours. But you need not look so grieved, my dear," she added, with a little smile, "you need not know any wicked men." "Who can tell? One does not know; wicked men are just like the others, only we like them better." Mrs. Davenant stared at her, and utterly overwhelmed by the strange reply, sank into her corner and into silence. The panting engine tore along the line, and presently the clear atmosphere was left behind, and the cloud of smoke which hangs over the Great City came down upon them and took them in, and infolded them.