“Is it supposed, then, that she would wish to do so?” “Colonel Piercey,” cried Margaret, “you have come among us at a dreadful moment, when all the secrets of the family are laid bare. Oh, don’t ask any more questions! I have said things I did not intend to say.” “I hope that I am to be trusted,” he said, with his severe tone; “and if I can help, I will. To whom are you going? Is it to this old Hewitt? for nothing, I think, is to be learned from him.” “I am going to Miss Hewitt, her aunt. It is in despair. For she has a hatred of all of us at Greyshott; but surely, surely, when they hear that his mother is dying----” “She cannot hate me. I will go,” Gerald Piercey said. CHAPTER XX. Old Miss Hewitt sat in her parlour, if not like a fat spider watching for the fly, at least like a large cat seated demurely, with an eye upon her natural prey, though her aspect was more decorous and composed than words could tell. She had been made aware by her little servant a few minutes before that “a gentleman” was coming up to the door, and had instantaneously prepared to meet the visitor. A visitor was a very rare thing at Rose Cottage. “You’re sure it ain’t the curate, a-coming begging?” “Oh, no,” cried the little maid, “a tall, grand gentleman, like a lord. I think I knows a pa’son when I sees ’un!” she added, with rustic contempt. Miss Hewitt settled herself in her large chair; she gave her cap that twist that every woman who wears a cap supposes to put all aright. She drew to her a footstool for her feet, and then she said, “You may let him in, Jane.” A smile of delight was upon her mouth; but she subdued even that in her sense of propriety, to heighten the effect. She had been waiting for this moment for thirty years. She had not known how it would come about, but she had always felt it must come about somehow. She had paid fifty pounds for it--and she had not grudged her money--and now it had come. She did not even know the shape it would take, or who it was who was coming to place the family of Piercey at her feet, that she might spurn them; but that this was what was about to happen, she felt absolutely sure. It could not be Sir Giles himself, which would have been the sweetest of all, for Sir Giles was too infirm to visit anybody; while she, whom he had scorned once, was hale and strong, and sure to see both of them out! Perhaps it was a solicitor, or something of the kind. What did she care? It was some one from the Pierceys coming to her, abject, with a petition--which she would not grant--no, not if they besought her on their knees.