‘I think she is very handsome, sir,’ he said, ‘and I dare say she is amiable; but I really have had very little opportunity of forming any opinion about the young lady.’ ‘No, you have seen nothing of her as yet. You will like her better when you come to know her. I cannot doubt that. Her father and I were warm friends, once upon a time. We were at Oxford together, and travelled a good deal in Spain and Italy together, and loved each other well enough, I believe, till circumstances parted us. I need have no shame in owning the cause of our parting now. We loved the same woman, and Stephen Malcolm won her. I thought--whether rightly or wrongly--that I had not been fairly treated in the matter, and Stephen and I parted, never to meet as friends again till Stephen was on his death-bed. The lady jilted him after all, and he did not marry until some years later. When I heard of him next he was in reduced circumstances. I sought him out, found him in a pitiable condition and adopted his daughter--an only child--doubly orphaned. I cannot tell you how dear she soon became to me, but I had made an oath I would leave her nothing, and I have not broken that oath, dearly as I love her.’ ‘But you have made some provision for her future, sir?’ ‘Yes, I have striven to provide for her future. God grant it may be a happy one. And now call my servant, if you please, John. I have talked a great deal too much as it is.’ ‘Only one word before I call the man. Let me tell you, sir, that I am grateful,’ said John Treverton, kneeling down beside the bed, and taking the old man’s wasted hand in his. ‘Prove it when I am gone, John, by trying to carry out my wishes. And now good-night. You had better go to bed.’ ‘Will you allow me to sit with you for the rest of the night, sir? I have not the least inclination to sleep.’ ‘No, no, there would be no use in your sitting up. If I am well enough to see you again in the morning I will do so. Till then, good-bye.’ The old man’s tone was decisive. John Treverton went out of the room by a door that opened on the gallery. Here he found Jasper Treverton’s valet, a grave-looking, grey-haired man, dozing upon a window seat. He told this man that he was wanted in the sick room, and then went to the study. Miss Malcolm was still there, sitting in a thoughtful attitude, looking at the fire. ‘What do you think of him?’ she asked, looking up suddenly, as John Treverton entered the room. ‘He does not seem to me so ill as I expected to see him from your account. He has spoken to me with perfect clearness.’ ‘I am very glad of that. He seemed a good deal better after that long sleep. I will ring for Trimmer to show you your room, Mr. Treverton.’ ‘Are you not going to bed yourself, Miss Malcolm? It is nearly three o’clock.’ ‘No. I cannot sleep during this time of suspense. Besides, he may want me at any moment. I shall lie down on that sofa, perhaps, a little before morning.’ ‘Have you been keeping watch like this many nights?’