Then he showed her the books of the estate, made her understand the value of every field and meadow, of every house and farm and young plantation of wood. "It's a grand property, and Antony was a born fool to part wi' such a bird in t' hand for any number o' finer ones in t' bush. Does ta understand its value?" "I am sure I do." "And thou is proud o' being the daughter o' such land?" "I love every rood of it." "Then listen to me. Thy mother gave thee L5,000. It was put out at interest on thy first birthday, and I hev added a L100 now and then, as I could see my way clear to do so. Thou hes now L22,000 o' thy own--a varry tidy fortune. If ta takes Hallam thou must pay down a' of this to Antony. I'll hev to find t' other L28,000 by a mortgage. Then I shall sell all t' young timber that's wise to sell, and some o' Hallam marsh, to pay off t' mortgage. That will take time to do wisely, and it will be work enough for me for t' balance or my life. But I'll leave thee Hallam clear if God spare me five years longer, and then there'll be few women i' England thou need envy." "Whatever I have is yours, father. Do as you think best. I will try to learn all about the estate, and I promise you most faithfully to hold it in a good stewardship for those who shall come after me." "Give me a kiss, my lass, on that promise. I don't say as a lass can iver be to Hallam what Antony should hev been; but thou'rt bound to do thy best." "And, father, Antony is very clever. Who can tell what he may do? If a man wants to go up, the door is open to wit and skill and industry. Antony has all these." "Fair words! Fair words, Elizabeth! But we wont sell t' wheat till we have reaped t' field; and Antony's wheat isn't sown yet. He's gotten more projects in his mind than there's places on t' map. I don't like such ways!" "If Antony is any thing, father, he is clear-sighted for his own interest. He knows the road he is going to take, you may be very sure." "Nay, then, I'm not sure. I'll always suspect that a dark road is a bad road until I'm safe off it." "We may as well hope for the best. Antony appeared to understand what he was doing." "Antony has got t' gold sickness varry bad, and they'd be fools indeed who'd consult a man wi' a fever on his own case. But we're nobbut talking for talking's sake. Let us go to Phyllis. She'll hev been more 'an a bit lonely, I'm feared." A servant with candles opened the parlor door for them. The rector was sitting in the fire-light, and Phyllis softly playing and singing at the piano. She looked up with a smile in her eyes, and finished her hymn. The four lines seemed like a voice from heaven to the anxious father and sister: "Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face." "Sing them words again, Phyllis, dearie," said the squire, and as she did so he let them sink into his heart and fill all its restless chambers with confidence and peace.