d been
trying to drown his misery, which might account for his strange
delusion. Yet this explanation did not put Will's mind at ease.
Gloomily he made his way homeward through the roaring night.

CHAPTER 9

Ten o'clock next morning saw him alighting from the train at St. Neots.
A conveyance for which he had telegraphed awaited him at the station;
its driver, a young man of his own age (they had known each other from
boyhood), grinned his broadest as he ran toward Will on the platform,
and relieved him of his bag.

"Well, Sam, how goes it? Everybody flourishing?--Drive first to Mr.
Turnbull's office."

Mr. Turnbull was a grey-headed man of threescore, much troubled with
lumbago, which made him stoop as he walked. He had a visage of
extraordinary solemnity, and seemed to regard every one, no matter how
prosperous or cheerful, with anxious commiseration. At the sight of
Will, he endeavoured to smile, and his handshake, though the flabbiest
possible, was meant for a cordial response to the young man's
heartiness.

"I'm on my way to The Haws, Mr. Turnbull, and wanted to ask if you
could come up and see us this evening?"

"Oh, with pleasure," answered the lawyer, his tone that of one invited
to a funeral. "You may count on me."

"We're winding up at Sherwood's. I don't mean in bankruptcy; but that
wouldn't be far off if we kept going."

"Ah! I can well understand that," said Mr. Turnbull, with a gleam of
satisfaction. Though a thoroughly kind man, it always brightened him to
hear of misfortune, especially when he had himself foretold it; and he
had always taken the darkest view of Will's prospects in Little Ailie
Street.

"I have a project I should like to talk over with you--"

"Ah?" said the lawyer anxiously.

"As it concerns my mother and Jane--"

"Ah?" said Mr. Turnbull, with profound despondency.

"Then we shall expect you.--Will it rain, do you think?"

"I fear so. The glass is very low indeed. It wouldn't surprise me if we
had rain through the whole month of August."

"Good Heavens! I hope not," replied Will laughing.

He drove out of the town again, in a different direction, for about a
mile. On rising ground, overlooking the green valley of the Ouse, stood
a small, plain, solidly-built house, sheltered on the cold side by a
row of fine hawthorns, nearly as high as the top of its chimneys. In
front, bordered along the road by hollies as impenetrable as a stone
wall, lay a bright little f