d, the first claim. He and I settled it together without much
law. He is the possessor of the farm, and I have brought away a roll of
notes; that's about all."

"I suppose a small farm does not fetch much in these days," said
Verschoyle.

"This would have fetched more had I allowed them to bid one against the
other; three or four instead of two thousand, I was told."

"Two thousand would seem a pretty good haul to some people. Notes, do
you say?"

"Partly; and partly in cheques," replied Meredith, looking a little
surprised.

"Do you carry them about with you, Meredith? I mean"--noticing the
surprise in the other's face--"is it wise--safe, do you think, to go
about these lonely places with all that--" breaking off, and hurriedly
adding: "But, of course, we can't let you go to-night. You must put up
with what we have to offer, until the morning at any rate." A sudden
thought had crossed his mind. Might it not be possible to appeal to
Meredith for a loan? "What a quarter of that money would do for me just
now! If I could only open my heart to him, as Madge says. Pshaw! Easy
enough for girls, such as she, to open their hearts. She wouldn't have
been so ready to advise me to do that, had she known all."

"Mr. Meredith would, perhaps, prefer the inn in the town, Laurence; he
might find it more comfortable," put in his sister, a little puzzled by
the change in his tone; but, supposing it might be only to keep up
appearances, she went on: "There will be a moon, and----"

"Oh, nonsense!" hurriedly interrupted her brother. "You will not mind
roughing it for one night, eh, Meredith? Of course you must stay."

"I hope so, indeed," said Mrs. Verschoyle, to whom her daughter had had
no time to give the hint her brother bade her give. "I trust you will
accept our poor hospitality, Mr. Meredith."

"There, that settles it, Meredith. You can't refuse my mother, now; or
she will be lamenting the little we have to offer."

"It is not little to me," replied Meredith, in all sincerity. The chance
of spending a few hours in the society of Margaret Verschoyle was,
indeed, beginning to mean a great deal to him. He had not, before, met
any woman who interested him in this way; and, already, he knew that
none other ever would. She said very little now; having, he noticed,
become more silent and abstracted as her brother grew effusive,
apparently in the endeavour to make up for his previous lack of
courtesy.

"This is our only drawi