"I am glad of that," he said. "There are people, of course, who are prejudiced against him. He is a Jew, and he's new, and he has that queer sort of indefinable position which attracts criticism. But I think you will find him a valuable friend." Daventry's voice had weakened to a whisper, and he lay back upon his pillows with his eyes closed. Cynthia moved, but the pressure of his hand retained her. She sat and waited, speaking no word and holding back the tears which smarted in her eyes. Robert Daventry spoke again. "There's some medicine," he said. "Hill gave it me to keep me going. It's in a glass." Cynthia lifted a glass filled with some grayish liquid, and held it to the old man's lips. He drank, and resumed: "I have written down during the last day or two the heads of what I wanted to say on a paper." Cynthia found a slip of paper on the table by the bedside. "Just read." There were some words written one below the other on the paper in a straggling hand. Cynthia read them out. "Money." "I have said all I have to say, I think, about that." "Diana Royle," Cynthia read next. But she read the name slowly, so slowly that Robert Daventry noticed her deliberation. "I don't think you can see, Cynthia," he said. "It's getting dark." "Oh, yes, father, I can see quite clearly," she replied. "What of Mrs. Royle?" "You know her," said Robert. "You like her, too, I think, don't you?" Cynthia did not reply, but Daventry had not asked the question in the tone of one needing a reply. "You will want some one to live with you until you get married, which, by the way, you don't seem to be in a hurry to do, my dear. The young fellows round here don't seem to have made much impression. Oh! I am not bustling you, my dear. Only--only--don't leave it too long, Cynthia," he said, and his hand sought hers again. Cynthia stirred uneasily. It was the way of men, to want to marry every girl off as soon as possible, she knew. It was a form of vanity. But she wished to give no promise. "You will probably go to London, I don't want you to mope down here all the time. There's no reason that you should. You can have your house in town. But you will want some one with you, and I thought my cousin, Diana Royle, would be the most suitable person." Cynthia raised her head as if she was about to speak. But she did not, and Daventry said: "I wrote to her about it." "Oh," said Cynthia slowly. "You have already written?" "Yes, and she consented at once. You see her husband left her badly off when he died. So it will be an advantage to her. And though she is older than you are, she is not so much older that you won't be in sympathy with one another." Cynthia nodded her head.