"Well, well, I see how anxious you are for her," said Mrs. Carlyon; who, however, could hardly feel it right to let him be so long alone. "In any case, you would like her to be home before your birthday." The Squire did not answer. He seemed to be struggling with some inward emotion, and a curious spasm shot across his face. Mrs. Carlyon half rose from her chair, but sat down again. "Why before my birthday?" said he, at length. "It's no more to me than any other day. I never make a festival of it as some idiots do--as if it was something to rejoice over. She needn't come back for my birthday unless I send for her. I shall be sure to send if I want her." "If you became worse--or weaker--you would send?" "Ay, ay--why not? Don't we always want our dear ones with us in sickness? Not but, what with Jago's treatment, I seem to have taken a new lease of life. Look here: I should like the child to see Italy." "And so she shall. And she will enjoy it, I am sure, provided she can make her mind easy at leaving you. Ella is not like other girls; she is more reasonable," added Mrs. Carlyon. "Look at some flighty young things--thinking of nothing but of getting married." "Bodikins! the women are generally keen enough after that, nowadays. Ella never seems to care for the young fellows. Young Hanerly wanted her, came to me about it; but she'd have nothing to say to him. Whomsoever she marries, he will have to change his name to Denison. None but a Denison must inherit Heron Dyke." The thought occurred to Mrs. Carlyon--and it was on the tip of her tongue to say it--that Ella's husband might not inherit Heron Dyke. If the ailing man before her did not live to his next birthday, it must all pass away from Ella. But she kept silence. "I suppose you never by any chance hear from your cousin Gilbert?" she presently asked, the train of thought prompting the question. Mr. Denison's face darkened; a cold, hard look came into his eyes. He turned sharply round and faced his questioner, but she was directly regarding the smouldering logs on the hearth. "Hear from my cousin Gilbert!" he said in deep harsh tones. "And pray why should I want to hear from him? I would sooner receive a message from--from the commonest beggar. He would never have the impudence to write to me. Body o' me! Gilbert, forsooth! He has his spies round the place night and day, I know that; watching and waiting for the moment the breath will go out of me. But they will be deceived--they and their master: yes, Gertrude Carlyon, I tell you that they will be deceived! I am not dead yet, nor likely to die. I shall live to see my seventieth birthday--I know it, I feel it--and not one acre of the old estates shall go to that man!" He spoke with strange energy. It was evident that the old hatred towards his cousin still burned as fiercely in his heart as it had done forty years before.