Reuben, disappointed, defeated: in such a one she would always, in spite of himself, have felt her rights. But Reuben, hopeful, successful, surrounded by admiring friends and relatives, fenced in more closely still by his mother’s love: from the contemplation of this glittering figure, cruel, triumphant, she turned away in a stony agony of self-contempt. There was a sound of carriage wheels outside, and Lionel, who had been reconnoitring in the hall, burst in with the announcement, “Grandpapa has come.” Mrs. Leuniger received the news with something like agitation. Old Solomon’s visits were few and far between, and now as he came, with pompous uncertainty of step across the room, the whole group by the fireplace rose hastily and went to meet him. “Reuben is nominated,” cried Adelaide, when the old man had been established in a chair. “Yes, yes,” said Solomon Sachs, “so I hear.” He turned to his niece: “He ain’t looking well, that boy of yours.” Mrs. Sachs shifted uneasily. “You saw him just before he went, uncle Solomon, when he was tired out and not himself. He had been running from pillar to post all the week.” Mrs. Leuniger muttered dejectedly: “He is getting to look like his father.” Old Solomon raised his square hand to his beard, lifting his eyebrows high above the grave, shrewd, melancholy eyes. Mrs. Sachs started; a sudden look of terror came into her face; the whites of her little hard eyes grew visible. “Why don’t he marry?” said Solomon Sachs after a pause; “why don’t he marry that daughter of Cardozo’s? She’s not much to look at, certainly,” he added, and a wave of whimsical amusement broke out suddenly over the large, grave face. “Yes,” put in Mrs. Leuniger, unusually loquacious, “his wife might see that he didn’t work himself to death.” “I don’t see how he can work less,” cried Adelaide; “he has his way to make. And making your way, in these days, means pulling a great many strings.” “Yes,” said Mrs. Sachs, relieved by this view of the case, “he must get on.” Judith began to feel that her powers of endurance had their limits. She rose slowly, went over to the fireplace for a moment, threw a casual remark to Rose, and went from the room. As she made her way up stairs the postman’s knock sounded through the house, and then Lionel came running to her with a letter. Her correspondence was very small, and she glanced with but faint interest at the little packet in her cousin’s hand. He was carrying it seal upwards, and suddenly her heart beat with a wild, mad beating, and the colour leapt to her pale cheeks. She could see that it was sealed with wax. There was only one person that she knew who fastened his letters so. Reuben invariably made use of the signet ring which had belonged to his father, engraved with a crest duly bought and paid for at the Heralds’ College. She took the precious thing in her hand, closing her fingers over it, and smiled radiantly at the little boy. “Thank you, Lionel.”