Clement sat silent, lost in thought, wondering if he were doing right, and fearing much that the Squire had repented of his generosity and was minded to recall it. If that were so, the awakening from the hopes which he had raised, and the dream of security in which they had lost themselves, would be a cruel shock. Clement shrank from thinking what its effect would be on his father, whose relief had betrayed the full measure of his fears. And his own case was hardly better, for it was not only his fortune that was at stake and that he had thought saved. He had given rein, also, to his hopes. He had let them carry him far into a roseate country where the sun shone and Josina smiled, and all the difficulties that had divided them melted into air. There might be need of time and patience; but with time and patience he had fancied that he might win his way. It was cruel, indeed, then if the old man at Garth had changed his mind, if he had played with them, only to deceive them, only to disappoint them! And Clement could not but fear that it was so. The closing day, the wintry air, the prospect before him, as they swung across the darkening land, seemed to confirm his fears and oppress him with misgivings. A long cloud, fish-shaped, hung lowering across the western sky; below it, along the horizon, a narrow strip of angry yellow, unnaturally bright, threw the black, jagged outline of the hills into violent contrast, and shed a pale light on the intervening plain. Ay, he feared the worst. He could think of nothing else that could be the cause of this sudden, this agitated summons. The Squire must have repented. He had changed his mind, and—— But here they were at the bridge. The cottages of the hamlet showed here and there a spark of light. They turned to the left, and five minutes later—the horse quickening its pace as they approached its stable—they were winding up the sunken drive under the stark limbs of the beeches. The house stood above them, a sombre pile, its chimneys half obscured by the trees. Heavily Clement let himself down, to find Calamy at his elbow. The man had been waiting for him in the dimly lighted doorway. “Mr. Bourdillon has gone to London,” Clement explained. “I have come instead if I can be of any use.” Then he saw that the butler did not know him, and “I am Mr. Clement Ovington,” he added. “You’d better ask your master if he would like to see me.” “There’s times when the devil’d be welcome,” the man replied bluntly. “It’s tears and lamentations and woe in the house this night, but God knows what it’s all about, for I don’t. Come in, come in, sir, in heaven’s name, but I’m fearing it’s little good. The devil has us in his tail, and if the master goes through the night—but this way, sir—this way!” He opened a door on the left of the hall, pushed the astonished Clement into the room, and over his shoulder, “Here’s one from the bank, at any rate,” he proclaimed. “Maybe he’ll do.”