“Why, of course, Arthur, I thought that you knew that it was your father’s.” She was very simple, and her pride was touched. “And now it is yours. And I suppose that some day—I hope it will be a long day, mother—it will be mine. Believe me, you’ve only to write to my uncle and tell him that you have decided to call it up, and he will pay it as a matter of course. Shall I write the letter for you to sign?” Mrs. Bourdillon looked piteously at him. She was very, very unwilling to comply, but what was she to do? Between love of him and fear of the Squire, what was she to do? Poor woman, she did not know. But he was with her, the Squire was absent, and she was about to acquiesce when a last argument occurred to her. “But you are forgetting,” she said, “if your uncle takes offence, and I’m sure he will, he’ll come between you and Josina.” “Well, that is his look-out.” “Arthur! You don’t mean that you’ve changed your mind, and you so fond of her? And the girl heir to Garth and all her father’s money!” “I say nothing about it,” Arthur declared. “If he chooses to come between us that will be his doing, not mine.” “But Garth!” Mrs. Bourdillon was altogether at sea. “My dear boy, you are not thinking! Why, Lord ha’ mercy on us, where would you find such another, young and pretty and all, and Garth in her pocket? Why, if it were only on Jos’s account you’d be mad to quarrel with him.” “I’m not going to quarrel with him,” Arthur replied sullenly. “If he chooses to quarrel with me, well, she’s not the only heiress in the world.” His mother held up her hands. “Oh dear me,” she said wearily. “I give it up, I don’t understand you. But I’m only a woman and I suppose I don’t understand anything.” He was accustomed to command and she to be guided. He saw that she was wavering, and he plied her afresh, and in the end, though not without another outburst of tears, he succeeded. He fetched the pen, he smoothed the paper, and before he handed his mother her bed-candle he had got the fateful letter written, and had even by lavishing on her unusual signs of affection brought a smile to her face. “It will be all right, mother, you’ll see,” he urged as he watched her mount the stairs. “It will be all right! You’ll see me a millionaire yet.” And then he made a mistake which was to cost him dearly. He left the letter on the mantel-shelf. An hour later, when he had been some time in bed, he heard a door open and he sat up and listened. Even then, had he acted on the instant, it might have availed. But he hesitated, arguing down his misgivings, and it was only when he caught the sound of footsteps stealthily re-ascending that he jumped out of bed and lit a candle. He slipped downstairs, but he was too late. The letter was gone. He went up to bed again, and though he wondered at the queer ways of women he did not as yet doubt the issue. He would recover the letter in the morning and send it. The end would be the same.