low. Remember that
estates of L4000 a year, don't often escheat, now-a-days."

"If you'll draw up a will, brother, I'll leave it all to Tom," cried the
baronet, with sudden energy. "Nothing need be said about the _nullius_;
and when I'm gone, he'll step quietly into my place."

Nature triumphed a moment in the bosom of the father; but habit, and the
stern sense of right, soon overcame the feeling. Perhaps certain doubts,
and a knowledge of his son's real character, contributed their share
towards the reply.

"It ought not to be, Sir Wycherly," returned the judge, musing, "Tom has
no right to Wychecombe, and Sir Reginald has the best moral right
possible, though the law cuts him off. Had Sir Michael made the entail,
instead of our great-grandfather, he would have come in, as a matter of
course."

"I never liked Sir Reginald Wychecombe," said the baronet, stubbornly.

"What of that?--He will not trouble you while living, and when dead it
will be all the same. Come--come--I will draw the will myself, leaving
blanks for the name; and when it is once done, you will sign it,
cheerfully. It is the last legal act I shall ever perform, and it will
be a suitable one, death being constantly before me."

This ended the dialogue. The will was drawn according to promise; Sir
Wycherly took it to his room to read, carefully inserted the name of Tom
Wychecombe in all the blank spaces, brought it back, duly executed the
instrument in his brother's presence, and then gave the paper to his
nephew to preserve, with a strong injunction on him to keep the secret,
until the instrument should have force by his own death. Mr. Baron
Wychecombe died in six weeks, and the baronet returned to his residence,
a sincere mourner for the loss of an only brother. A more unfortunate
selection of an heir could not have been made, as Tom Wychecombe was, in
reality, the son of a barrister in the Temple; the fancied likeness to
the reputed father existing only in the imagination of his credulous
uncle.

CHAPTER II.

----"How fearful
And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eyes so low!
The crows, and choughs, that wing the midway air,
Show scarce so gross as beetles! Half-way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire! dreadful trade!"

KING LEAR.

This digression on the family of Wychecombe has led us far from the
signal-station, the head-land, and the fog, with which the tale opened.
The little dwelli