ou afraid of the much-abused priest who is supposed to be
always poking his nose into other people's business and interfering in
family matters? You know."

"I only know that you are talking bosh when you ought to be serious,
Dick. Do run through that paper and make any remarks on it you like."

"Well, if you really wish it," said the Canon, serious enough now, as he
got out his glasses, and began to peruse attentively the masses of legal
jargon which covered up the testator's designs. He had not got far,
however, before he came upon that which perturbed him not a little, but
of such his trained impassive countenance betrayed no sign. Sir Luke
sat looking out of the window, watching the thrushes hopping about the
lawn.

"Well?" he said at last, but not extending a hand to receive the
document which the other was holding out to him.

"You have altered all your former dispositions," said the Canon.

"Yes. I have been thinking things carefully over. I daren't trust him,
that scamp. He has simply gone from bad to worse, and would make ducks
and drakes of the lot. Percival won't."

"That scamp!" The hardly perceptible quiver in his old friend's voice
as he uttered the word, did not escape the shrewd ecclesiastic. Indeed,
to that skilled and experienced master of human nature in all its
phases, the state of his friend's mind at this moment was a very wide
open book.

"Are you sure of yourself, Canterby?" he said. "Is it quite just to
entail upon him so ruthlessly sweeping a penalty as this? Are you sure
of yourself?"

"Of course I am."

"No, you're not. My dear old friend, you can't throw dust in my eyes.
You are not sure of yourself. Then why not give him another chance?"

"Why, that's just what I have done. Anybody else would have cut him off
with a shilling--with the traditional shilling. By George, sir, they
would."

Canon Lenthall smiled to himself, for he knew that when a man of his
friend's temperament begins to wax warm in an argument of this sort, it
is a sure sign that he is arguing against himself. He considered the
victory almost won. Turning over the sheets of the draft once more, he
read out a clause--slowly and deliberately:

"To my nephew, Hilary Blachland, I bequeath the sum of two hundred
pounds--in case he might find himself in such a position that its
possession would afford him a last chance."

"Well?" queried Sir Luke.

"Please note two things, Canterby," said the Cano