"Beatrice, you could argue any one into thinking with you. But I must exercise my own common-sense." "No, you must not. You must exercise your unworldly sense, and help me in this matter." "What! And help you to throw away a quarter of your fortune?" "I shall have fifteen thousand pounds left, more than enough for the requirements of any girl." "I doubt if the wording of your father's will could give me the power for a moment." "I am sure it could. I am confident that in drawing his will he trusted you absolutely and me absolutely. He often spoke to me about money, and told me what a solemn trust riches were. He charged me like the man in the parable not to bury my talent in a napkin, but to put it out to usury. He said that he made you my guardian, because you were the most unworldly-minded man he knew, and he told me many times that although he could not give me absolute control of my money before I was twenty-one, yet that no reasonable wish of mine would be refused by you." "And you call this a reasonable wish?" "I do. And so would my father if he were alive. Bring his face once again before you, Rector, and you will agree with me." The Rector sat down in his arm-chair, and shaded his eyes with one of his long white hands. He sat for a long time motionless, and without speaking. Beatrice stood by the mantelpiece; there was a small fire in the grate; now and then a flame leaped up, and cast its reflection on her face. Suddenly the Rector started upright. "What day is this?" he asked. "Thursday--Thursday night." "And you are to be married on Tuesday?" "No, I may never marry. Nina Hart and Loftus Bertram are to be married on Tuesday." "God bless me! Beatrice, you have put me into a nice fix. Guardians are not always to be envied. What's the hour, child?" Beatrice glanced at the clock. "It is half-past nine," she said. "You say that this--this Miss Hart was staying at the Bells'?" "Yes." "I must go to her. I must see her to-night." "Remember she is weak and ill. You will be gentle with her." "Beatrice, am I as a rule rough with people? Come, I will see you home, and then call on Miss Hart." CHAPTER XXXI. CIVIL WAR AT NORTHBURY. It is often very difficult to trace Rumor to his foundation. His beginning is sometimes as small as a particle of sand; the first dawning of his existence as impalpable as the air. From these small beginnings, however, rumor arises, strong as a giant, cruel as death. Perhaps no foe has more injured mankind than idle rumor.