“Wiggins?” said Mowbray. “Ah! was he not the steward of your late father?” “Yes.” “I have heard somewhere that he was appointed your guardian. Is that so?” “I don't know,” said Edith. “He claims to be my guardian; but I am of age, and I don't see how he can be.” “The law of guardianship is very peculiar,” said Mowbray. “Perhaps he has right on his side.” “Right!” cried Edith, warmly. “How can he have the right to restrict my liberty, and make me a prisoner on my own estate. I am of age. The estate is absolutely mine. He is only a servant. Have I no rights whatever?” “I should say you had,” said Mowbray, languidly stroking his mustache. “I should say you had, of course. But this guardian business is a troublesome thing, and Wiggins, as your guardian, may have a certain amount of power.” Edith turned away impatiently. “I hoped,” said she, “that the mere mention of my situation would be enough to excite your sympathy. I see that I was mistaken, and am sorry that I have troubled you.” “You are too hasty,” said Mowbray. “You see, I look at your position merely from a legal point of view.” “A legal point!” exclaimed Mrs. Mowbray, who had now dried her eyes and restored the handkerchief and the salts bottle to their proper places. “A legal point! Ah, Miss Dalton, my son is great on legal points. He is quite a lawyer. If he had embraced the law as a profession, which I once thought of getting him to do, though that was when he was quite a child, and something or other put it quite out of my head--if he had embraced the law as a profession, my dear, he might have aspired to the bench.” Edith rested her brow on her hand and bit her lips, reproaching herself for having confided her troubles to these people. Wiggins himself was more endurable. “Your case,” said Captain Mowbray, tapping his boot with his cane in a careless manner, “is one which requires a very great amount of careful consideration.” Edith said nothing. She had become hopeless. “If there is a will, and Wiggins has powers given him in the instrument, he can give you a great deal of trouble without your being able to prevent it.” This scene was becoming intolerable, and Edith could bear it no longer. “I want to make one final request,” said she, with difficulty controlling the scorn and indignation which she felt. “It is this--will you give me a seat in your carriage as far as the village inn?” “The village inn?” repeated Mowbray, and the he was silent for some time. His mother looked at him inquiringly and curiously. “I have friends,” said Edith, “and I will go to them. All that I ask of you is the drive of a few rods to the village inn. You can leave me there, and I will never trouble you again.”