ing had
almost been too much for her. She had heard the murmuring of the
voices in the room below, and had known that one of them was that
of her lover. Whether that discussion was to be for her good or ill
she did not know; but she felt that further suspense would almost
kill her. "I could wait for years," she said to herself, "if I did
but know. If I lost him, I suppose I should bear it, if I did but
know."--Well; she was going to know.

Her uncle met her in the middle of the room. His face was serious,
though not sad; too serious to confirm her hopes at that moment of
doubt. "What is it, uncle?" she said, taking one of his hands between
both of her own. "What is it? Tell me." And as she looked up into his
face with her wild eyes, she almost frightened him.

"Mary," he said gravely, "you have heard much, I know, of Sir Roger
Scatcherd's great fortune."

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"Now that poor Sir Louis is dead--"

"Well, uncle, well?"

"It has been left--"

"To Frank! to Mr Gresham, to the squire!" exclaimed Mary, who felt,
with an agony of doubt, that this sudden accession of immense wealth
might separate her still further from her lover.

"No, Mary, not to the Greshams; but to yourself."

"To me!" she cried, and putting both her hands to her forehead, she
seemed to be holding her temples together. "To me!"

"Yes, Mary; it is all your own now. To do as you like best with it
all--all. May God, in His mercy, enable you to bear the burden, and
lighten for you the temptation!"

She had so far moved as to find the nearest chair, and there she
was now seated, staring at her uncle with fixed eyes. "Uncle," she
said, "what does it mean?" Then he came, and sitting beside her, he
explained, as best he could, the story of her birth, and her kinship
with the Scatcherds. "And where is he, uncle?" she said. "Why does he
not come to me?"

"I wanted him to come, but her refused. They are both there now, the
father and son; shall I fetch them?"

"Fetch them! whom? The squire? No, uncle; but may we go to them?"

"Surely, Mary."

"But, uncle--"

"Yes, dearest."

"Is it true? are you sure? For his sake, you know; not for my own.
The squire, you know--Oh, uncle! I cannot go."

"They shall come to you."

"No--no. I have gone to him such hundreds of times; I will never
allow that he shall be sent to me. But, uncle, is it true?"

The doctor, as he went downstairs, muttered something about Sir
Abraham Haphazard, and Sir