For she was left penniless, worse than penniless, with a mass of unpaid debts on her hands; debts, the existence of which Mr. Stirling had never known. They gave him a powerful handle, and he used it. She was helpless, for she had no resources; and the money which would one day come to Katherine was tied securely out of reach for many a long year. As the price of her silence, Mr. Stirling paid all the debts, undertook the education of the little boy, and promised her an income of two hundred a year, so long as the secret should be faithfully guarded. And she had kept it, even from her own children. She had never betrayed him. She had followed all his directions, had obeyed all his commands. She was a woman capable of loving, and she had loved her husband with utter devotion; but the whole tenderness that was in her seemed to have been expended in that one direction. It was as if the long deceit, and the separation from her son, had seared and hardened her nature, deadening other affections. Yet in a way she did care greatly for this son, of whom she was allowed to see so little, between whom and herself so complete a separation of mind and heart had come about. She cared for his future; and she believed that his future depended on her strict observance of the conditions imposed. Uneducated and ignorant, she knew little beyond the circle of her own home-interests; and she had always believed that it was in the power of Mr. Stirling to leave his property where he chose;—only not to a woman, therefore not to Katherine. She had heard something of the "entail," and this was all that she supposed it to mean. The Squire had, perhaps, made no definite statements to her, but he had certainly implied that he had such power, and he had allowed her deliberately to remain under this delusion. Whereas, in point of fact, he had no power whatever to break the entail, without the consent of the next heir. Thinking over these things, as he lay back in his study chair, with closed eyes and aching head, the deceit looked very black. Whether he had or had not actually said this or that, mattered little. It was enough that he had misled his sister-in-law, had allowed her to be deceived. A knock at the door made him sit upright, opening a book, with an air of being occupied. The butler came in. "Somebody wishes to see you, sir." "Who is it?" "He didn't give any name, sir. He said he'd rather not. It's—" Forest lowered his voice—"it's the same gentleman that came when you were in town, sir, some weeks ago, and wanted your address." "Tell him I am engaged, and he had better come another time. Ask his name, please." The butler went, and returning said—"It is Mr. Maurice, sir." "I decline to see Mr. Maurice." The Squire had gone strangely pale. But in the doorway, behind the solid figure of the old butler, stood a younger and slighter figure, resolute in air. "And I decline to be sent away," a voice said, stern as the Squire's own.