nd the evening alone.

His father's letter had come at the right moment; in some degree it
allayed the worry caused by his brother Daniel's talk this morning.
Jerome Otway wrote, as usual, briefly, on the large letter-paper he
always used; his bold hand, full of a certain character, demanded
space. He began by congratulating Piers on the completion of his
one-and-twentieth year. "I am late, but had not forgotten the day; it
costs me an effort to put pen to paper, as you know." Proceeding, he
informed his son that a sum of money, a few hundred pounds, had become
payable to him on the attainment of his majority. "It was your
mother's, and she wished you to have it. A man of law will communicate
with you about the matter. Speak of it to me, or not, as you prefer. If
you wish it, I will advise; if you wish it not, I will keep silence."
There followed a few words about the beauty of spring in the moorland;
then: "Your ordeal approaches. An absurdity, I fear, but the wisdom of
our day will have it thus. I wish you success. If you fall short of
your hopes, come to me and we will talk once more. Befall what may, I
am to the end your father who wishes you well." The signature was very
large, and might have drawn censure of affectation from the
unsympathetic. As, indeed, might the whole epistle: very significant of
the mind and temper of Jerome Otway.

To Piers, the style was too familiar to suggest reflections besides, he
had a loyal mind towards his father, and never criticised the old man's
dealing with him. The confirmation of Daniel's report about the legacy
concerned him little in itself; he had no immediate need of money, and
so small a sum could not affect the course of his life; but, this being
true, it seemed probable that Daniel's other piece of information was
equally well founded. If so, what matter? Already he had asked himself
why the story about his mother should have caused him a shock. His
father, in all likelihood, would now never speak of that; and, indeed,
why should he? The story no longer affected either of them, and to
worry oneself about it was mere "philistinism," a favourite term with
Piers at that day.

In replying, which he did this same night, he decided to make no
mention of Daniel. The name would give his father no pleasure.

When he rang to have his tea-things taken away, Mrs. Hannaford
presented herself. She was anxious about him. Why would he not dine?
She wished him to make the acquaintance