sudden thought, not premeditated--an idea which had flashed into his mind since he began to speak, but which immediately gained attractiveness to him, when he saw the consternation in Mary’s eyes. “Oh, thank you, Randolph,” she said, faintly. Had not Mr. Pen advised--had not she herself thought of asking her brother’s advice, who was himself the father of a boy, and no doubt knew better about education than she did? “But,” she added, faltering, “he could not be got ready in a moment; it would require a little time. I fear that it would not be possible, though it is so very kind.” “Possible? Oh yes, easily possible, if you give your mind to it,” cried Randolph; and he pointed out to her at great length the advantages of the plan, while Mary sat trembling, in spite of herself, feeling that her horror of the idea was unjustifiable, and that she would probably have no excuse for rejecting so reasonable and apparently kind a proposal. Was it kind? It seemed so on the outside; and how could she venture to impute bad motives to Randolph, when he offered to serve her? She did not know what reply to make; but her mind was thrown into sudden and most unreasonable agitation. She got up at last, agitated and tremulous, and explained that she was compelled to go out to visit some of her poor people. “I have not been in the village since you came,” she said, breathless in her explanations; “and there are several who are ill; and I have something to say to Mr. Pen.” “Oh, yes, consult old Pen, of course,” Randolph had said. “I would not deprive a lady of her usual spiritual adviser because she happens to be my sister. Of course you must talk it over with Pen.” This assumption of her dependence upon poor Mr. Pen’s advice galled Mary, who had by no means elected Mr. Pen to be her spiritual adviser. However, she would not stay to argue the question, but hurried away anxiously with a sense of escape. She had escaped for the moment; yet she had a painful sense in her mind that she could not always escape from Randolph. The proposal was sudden, but it was reasonable and kind--quite kind. It was the thing a good uncle ought to do; no one but would think better of Randolph that he was willing to take so much trouble. Randolph for his part felt that it was very kind; he had no other meaning in the original suggestion; but when he had thus once put it forth, a curious expansion of the idea came into his mind. Little Nello was a terrible bugbear to Randolph. He had long dwelt upon the thought that it was he who would succeed to Penninghame on his father’s death--at first, perhaps, nominally on John’s account. But there was very little chance that John would dare the dangers of a trial, and reappear again, to be arraigned for murder, of which crime Randolph had always simply and stolidly believed him guilty; and the younger brother had entertained no doubt that, sooner or later, the unquestioned inheritance would fall into his hands. But this