irst the sole of one boot
and then the other to the blaze. "Hasn't always quite nice manners, has
he, the boy"; he observed. "I didn't want to have to send him out, you
know."

"He didn't realize that you wanted to talk to me alone." Amabel felt
herself offering the excuse from a heart turned to stone.

"Didn't he, do you think? Perhaps not. We always do talk alone, you
know. He's just a trifle tactless, shows a bit of temper sometimes. I've
noticed it. I hope he doesn't bother you with it."

"No. I never saw him like that, before," said Amabel, looking down as
she sat in her chair.

"Well, that's all that matters," said Sir Hugh, as if satisfied.

His boots were quite hot now and he went to the writing-desk drawing a
case of papers from his breast-pocket.

"Here are some of your securities, Amabel," he said: "I want a few more
signatures. Things haven't been going very well with me lately. I'd be
awfully obliged if you'd help me out."

"Oh--gladly--" she murmured. She rose and came to the desk. She hardly
saw the papers through a blur of miserable tears while she wrote her
name here and there. She was shut out in the mist and dark; he wasn't
thinking of her at all; he was chill, preoccupied; something was
displeasing him; decisively, almost sharply, he told her where to write.
"You mustn't be worried, you know," he observed as he pointed out the
last place; "I'm arranging here, you see, to pass Charlock House over to
you for good. That is a little return for all you've done. It's not a
valueless property. And then Bertram tied up a good sum for the child,
you know."

His speaking of "the child," made her heart stop beating, it brought the
past so near.--And was Charlock House to be her very own? "Oh," she
murmured, "that is too good of you.--You mustn't do that.--Apart from
Augustine's share, all that I have is yours; I want no return."

"Ah, but I want you to have it"; said Sir Hugh; "it will ease my
conscience a little. And you really do care for the grim old place,
don't you."

"I love it."

"Well, sign here, and here, and it's yours. There. Now you are mistress
in your own home. You don't know how good you've been to me, Amabel."

The voice was the old, kind voice, touched even, it seemed, with an
unwonted feeling, and, suddenly, the tears ran down her cheeks as,
looking at the papers that gave her her home, she said, faltering:--"You
are not displeased with me?--Nothing is the matter?"

He looked