y people; but I have saved money too; and it is my wish to leave
you this house and the residue of my fortune, after arranging for some
small legacies. The estate is not worth very much--a great deal of it
is wild downland. But you would have the place, when I died, and about
twelve hundred a year. It would be understood that you should live here
a certain amount--I don't believe in non-resident landlords. But I do
not mean to tie you down to live here altogether. It is only my wish
that you should do something for your tenants and neighbours. If you
stayed on at Cambridge you could come here in vacations. But my hope
would be that you might marry. It is a house for a family. If you do
not care to live here, I would rather it were sold. While I live, I
hope you will be content to spend some time here, and make acquaintance
with our neighbours, by which I mean the village people. I shall tell
Cousin Frank my intentions, and that will probably suffice to make it
known. I have a very great love for the place, and as far as I can see,
you will be likely to have the same.

"You need not feel overburdened with gratitude. You are my only near
relation; and indeed I may say that if I were to die before I have
signed my will, you would inherit all my fortune as next-of-kin. So you
will see that instead of enriching you, I am to a great extent
disinheriting you! Just tell me simply if you acquiesce. I want no
pledges, nor do I want to bind you in any way. I will not say more,
except that it has been a very deep delight to me to find a son in my
old age. I had always hoped it would turn out so; and in my experience,
God is very careful to give us our desires, just or unjust, great or
small.--Your loving Aunt,

"ANNE GRAVES."

Howard was stupefied for a moment by this communication, but he was
more affected by the love and confidence it showed than by the prospect
of wealth--wealth was not a thing he had ever expected, or indeed
thought much about; but it was a home that he had found. The great lack
of his life had been a local attachment, a place where he had reason to
live. Cambridge with all its joys had never been quite that. A curious
sense of emotion at the thought that the sweet place, the beautiful old
house, was to be his own, came over him; and another far-off dream
darted into his mind as well, which he did not dare to shape. He got up
and wrote a short note.

"MY DEAR AUNT,--Your letter fills me with astonishmen