"My dear, I saw Mr. Carson but for half an hour, so I can scarcely be expected to answer that question. He appeared to me to be an amiable and pleasant young gentleman, and I have no doubt he will make you an excellent husband." "Oh, I dare say; that is, of course, provided I consent to marry him," said Miss Bellairs, tartly. "Well, Mr. Dimbal, thank you. I quite understand all you have told me. When I marry Mr. Carson, he gets fifty thousand pounds to do exactly as he likes with." "Well, certainly that is one way of looking at it; but you must not forget that he is to pay you quarterly the sum of two hundred and fifty pounds," said Mr. Dimbal, hastily. "Quite so. I get one thousand to his forty-nine!" "No, no, my dear--not at all." "Oh, well, in any case he has the best of it," said Olive, wilfully. "If he chooses to make ducks and drakes of the capital there will be but a small chance of my getting any income." "That would be to argue Mr. Carson a thorough scamp, my dear. I do not think he is that." "How do you know--you say yourself you only saw him for thirty minutes--you can't read a man's character in that time." "Perhaps not; but Mr. Carson appears to me to be an exceptionally well-conducted young gentleman; and, after all, Olive, supposing he does waste this money, you have always three thousand a year of your own which he cannot touch." "And a husband I don't want," she replied bitterly. "Well, Mr. Dimbal, suppose I refuse this arrangement?" "Well, in that case, my dear, the whole of the money goes to the Reverend Manners Brock, Rector of Casterwell." "Yes, so I remember you told me before. Why, may I ask, does it go to him?" "Really, my dear, I can hardly say. Mr. Brock was the most intimate friend of your father and Dr. Carson. Failing the fulfilment of his primary wish, it is evident your father decided to pass on the money to his best friend. That is how the will stands, though, as I have said, it is not easy to approve of it in all respects." "It is a hard and cruel will," said Olive, despondently. "I am sure I don't wish to rob Mr. Carson or any one else of the money, but, on the other hand, I have no wish to become the wife of a man who is a complete stranger to me. My affections are not a regiment of soldiers, to be ordered about in this way." "Well," said Mr. Dimbal, fishing up a blue envelope with a red seal from the depths of his black bag--"well, Olive, here is your father's letter. It may perhaps explain his reason for making what, I allow, is a most extraordinary disposition of his personalty." Olive took the letter in silence, and, rising from her chair, opened it at the window with her back to the lawyer. It contained a single sheet of paper, on which were written eight lines in her father's well-known hand. They were shaky and faint, as though they had been penned--as indeed they were--by a dying man. "My Darling Olive,