“Mr. Creel?” said the baronet, sitting up on a high stool and crossing his legs. The lawyer bowed. “So I read it on the door, sir. Believe me, I hold the name in honour for my father’s sake.” “It is a good sign,” said the other; “and so far of happy augury. Here, I hope, is soil that may be renewed and yield yet a plentiful crop of wholesome grain.” He sat himself down, and, toying with a pencil, fixed his eyes steadily and gravely on the young man. “I crave your permission,” he said gently, “to speak very plainly, very freely, and--within proper limits--without reserve.” “Surely, sir; for should I not be dead by now? ’Tis a _post-mortem_ examination. Out with your scalpel, and cut and dissect as you list.” “It is a family matter and very private to your ear.” “Mr. Creel, who so taciturn as a ghost? Even a lawyer may give his confidence to a shadow.” “You please to jest. Will you be serious for once? What I have to say affects you nearly. I represent your dead father--am his agent, not in authority, but in loving-kindness.” “I listen, I listen. Perhaps I am a little light-headed. I have thrown out all my ballast, remember.” “You saw but little of the late Sir Robert?” “I was eleven years old when he died. That was in the war of ’80. He fought under Clinton and lies in Charleston where he fell. He was always a soldier in my vague memory of him--saturnine, pre-occupied, with a rare smile for odd moments.” “He feared God and loved his king--rest his memory! He had one other love--his only child; but him he was troubled for.” “Troubled for? But why should I ask?” “The boy was of high spirit, reckless, generous. He wore, even at that age, his heart on his sleeve for daws to peck at.” “They have left all threadbare. Well, well!” “Sir Robert’s was not a great fortune; but it was sufficient, with management, for his wants.” “They were fewer than mine, good man. I feel sure, sir, this retrospect is for a worthy purpose. Otherwise--well, it is obvious I was acquainted with the extent of my own inheritance.” “I ask no account of your stewardship. That is no part of the solemn commission I accepted from my friend. Maybe you have been more sinned against than sinning. Yet, is it not true that your father’s apprehensions were justified?” “Why else was I in the wherry?” “You are ruined?” “I am ruined.” The lawyer sighed. “It was foreseen,” he said, “by him who was dearest to you--foreseen and provided against.” “Provided against?” Mr. Creel made no answer; but he quietly arose, went to one of the japanned boxes, unlocked it and took thence a bundle of papers. “These,” he said, “are the title-deeds of an estate that is yours--on certain conditions.” The young man had no word to say; but watched the other in amazement as he took from the little heap a certain paper that was folded and sealed with his father’s monogram.