“Horful p’ticklers of the plague in a village in —shire!” they screamed under the windows. Not that Mr. Ford heard them. But in five minutes the noiseless door opened, and a clerk laid the morning paper on the table, and withdrew in silence. Mr. Ford cut it leisurely with a large ivory knife, and skimmed the news. His eye happened to fall upon the Rector’s letter, which, after a short summary of the history of the fever, pointed out the objects for which help was immediately required. There was a postscript. To give some idea of the ravages of the epidemic, and as a proof that the calamity was not exaggerated, a list of some of the worst cases was given, with names and particulars. It was gloomy enough. “Mary Smith, lost her husband (a laborer) and six children between the second and the ninth of the month. George Harness, a blacksmith, lost his wife and four children. Master Abel Lake, windmiller of the Tower Mill, lost all his children, five in number, between the fifth and the fifteenth of the month. His wife’s health is completely broken up”— At this point Mr. Ford dropped the paper, and, unlocking a drawer beside him, referred to some memoranda, after which he cut out the Rector’s letter with a large pair of office scissors, and enclosed it in one which he wrote before proceeding to any other business. He had underlined one name in the doleful list,—_Abel Lake_, _windmiller_. Some hours later the silent clerk ushered in a visitor, one of Mr. Ford’s clients. He was a gentleman of middle height and middle age,—the younger half of middle age, though his dark hair was prematurely gray. His eyes were black and restless, and his manner at once haughty and nervous. “I am very glad to see you, my dear sir,” said Mr. Ford, suavely; “I had just written you a note, the subject of which I can now speak about.” And, as he spoke, Mr. Ford tore open the letter which lay beside him, whilst his client was saying, “We are only passing through town on our way to Scotland. I shall be here two nights.” “You remember instructing me that it was your wish to economize as much as possible during the minority of your son?” said Mr. Ford. His client nodded. “I think,” continued the man of business, “there is a quarterly payment we have been in the habit of making on your account, which is now at an end.” And, as he spoke, he pushed the Rector’s letter across the table, with his fingers upon the name _Abel Lake_, _windmiller_. His client always spoke stiffly, which made the effort with which he now spoke less noticed by the lawyer. “I should like to be certain,” he said. “I mean, that there is no exaggeration or mistake.” “You have never communicated with the man, or given him any chance of pestering you,” said Mr. Ford. “I should hardly do so now, I think.” “I certainly kept the power of reopening communication in my own hands, knowing nothing of the man; but I should be sorry to discontinue the allowance under a—a mistake of any kind.”