"What a stupid thing to say, my dear," cried the old lady excitedly. "Don't take any notice of it. There, let's go to dinner." That meal was not a success, for every one seemed troubled and nervous, one infecting the other, but no allusion was made to the absentee, till they were seated alone over dessert, when, as the old lawyer sipped his claret, he said suddenly: "You are right. I've been thinking it over. Saul Harrington's invitation was too much for him. He repented of his refusal, and has gone off after him." "Yes," said Mrs Hampton, "that's it." Gertrude was silent. Her thoughts seemed to enchain the power of speech. "Don't look so troubled about it, my dear. He is a bachelor yet, and is making use of his last few days or weeks of freedom. We shall be having a letter from him soon. Con--bless that dog! Are you going to keep him in the house all night, my dear?" "I did mean to, Mr Hampton," said Gertrude, as a low, piteous, moan-like howl came from the hall. "Like my impudence to speak," muttered the old lawyer; "seemed to think I was at home." "He shall be taken to the stables, poor fellow," said Gertrude, rising. "Mrs Hampton, shall we go to the drawing-room?" "To be sure, my dear. And Hampton, don't stop long." "No, my love," said the old man gallantly, holding open the door; "and when I come up I hope we are to have some music." This was promised, and the lawyer returned to his seat, filled his glass, held it up brow high, looked full at the portrait of his old client, and nodded gravely. "Your health, Harrington, old friend," he said; and he half emptied his glass, and set it down. "Absurd thing to wish a dead man health," he continued, as he gazed full at the portrait. "Ought to have said welfare. Hallo! What's that?" He turned his face to the door, and sat listening to a faint whining, and the pattering of claw-armed feet on the floor. "Humph! Poor brute, getting him to the stables, I suppose. Better there." Then, as silence once more reigned in the place, he sat back, and gazed up at the portrait. "You meant well, old friend," he said, "but you understood the care of money better than the workings of human nature. James Harrington, you understood laying down good wine, too; but, between ourselves, you made as bad a will as ever I helped to draw up." "Ah," he continued, after a pause, "you may look as stern as you please; you know I'm telling the truth, and I shall do everything I can to upset your plans." He nodded, and sat sipping his wine. "A scamp!" he said. "But one might have expected some good in him, perhaps, such as tempted him to send the old man money, but an utter, reckless scoundrel at heart. I loathe him, and he must not be allowed to marry our poor little girl. It would be too cruel." There was another sip or two of wine taken, as the old man gazed thoughtfully before him.