And what a revelation was this, of what Maisrie had been in the years before he had known her! The quaint, prim, small miss!—he could have laughed, with a kind of delight: only that here were those calm, grave, earnest eyes, that seemed to know him, that seemed to speak to him. Full of wistfulness they were, and dreams: they said to him, ’I am looking forward; I am waiting till I meet you—my friend; life has that in store—for you and me.’ "I thought you would be interested," said Mr. Thompson, blandly. "And I know you would like me to give you that photograph: perhaps you think you have some right to it, having won the young lady herself——" "Won her?" said Vincent, still contemplating this strange, quaint portrait that seemed to speak to him somehow. "It hardly looks like it." "Well, I cannot give you the photograph," the elderly Scotchman continued, in his friendly way, "but, if you like, I will have it copied—perhaps even enlarged, if it will stand it—and I will send you one——" "Will you?" said Vincent, with a flash of gratitude in his eyes. "To me it would be simply a priceless treasure." "I just thought it would be," Mr. Thompson said, considerately. "I’ve seen something of the ways of young people in my time. Yes; I’ll send you a copy or two as soon as I can get them done." Vincent handed back the photograph—reluctantly, and keeping his eyes on it until it had disappeared. "I brought it out to show you she could sign her name properly when under proper instruction," the banker continued. "And now to return to her grandfather, who seems to have puzzled you a little, as well might be the case. I can see how you have been trying to blind yourself to certain things: no doubt you looked towards Margaret, and thought she would make up for all. But I surmise you have been a little unjust to my old friend; notwithstanding your association with him, you have not quite understood him; and perhaps that is hardly to be wondered at. And certainly you would never take him to be what I consider him to be—a very great man who has been spoiled by a fatal inheritance. I do truly and honestly believe there were the makings of a great man in George Bethune—a man with his indomitable pluck and self-reliance, his imagination, his restless energy, his splendid audacity and independence of character. Even now I see something heroic in him: he seems to me a man of heroic build—of heroic attitude towards the rest of the world: people may say what they like about George Bethune; but I know him better than most, and I wholly admire him and love him. If it hadn’t been for that miserable property! I suppose, now, a large estate may turn out a fortunate or unfortunate legacy accordingly as you use it; but if your legacy is only the knowledge that the estate ought to be yours, and isn’t, that is a fine set of circumstances! And I have little doubt it was to forget that wretched lawsuit, to escape from a