just now, and Mrs. Dorriman, who had instinctively turned to him in appeal, shrank a little, and he saw it.

"I am not a man fond of interfering," he said, gravely; "but I hope I can see when I can do a kindness, and do it—always supposing that in doing it I do no one any wrong."

"I want your advice," Mrs. Dorriman said, nervously. In asking advice was she doing her brother any wrong?

"And upon what subject?" Mr. Macfarlane took out his watch, counted the seconds with his thumb and returned it to his pocket. Urged by this evidence of time being precious, poor Mrs. Dorriman, without any of those explanations which she had turned over in her mind as necessary to lead up to the subject, rushed into it at once. "My brother, Mr. Sandford, wishes me to live with him——"

"To live with him?" Mr. Macfarlane was a little surprised, but he knew also that this could not be all. "I suppose he is anxious to have more of a home than a bachelor has as a rule," he said, after a pause.

"He wishes me to give up Inchbrae."

"Give it up! You do not mean to sell it out and out?"

"Yes, he desires me to sell it," and Mrs. Dorriman's voice showed plainly what selling it meant to her, and what a pang it would give her.

Mr. Macfarlane was a little puzzled now. Though he knew a good deal of her history, he was not at all sure what the relations between brother and sister were, that is to say, he knew a great deal, but not everything, and he was afraid of making a false move from ignorance, and putting this poor lady into a worse position than she at present was in.

He looked at her expectantly, and then he said kindly, "Then you intend going to him—you intend leaving Inchbrae?"

"I must," she said, nervously.

"And my advice is not needed then, since you have made up your mind."

There was a visible struggle going on in her. "I am afraid I must go, since he wishes it, but—need I sell the place, Mr. Macfarlane?"

"The place is yours—I would not sell it if I were you."

"But he commands me," she said, bitterly, "and——"

"And you do not know what the consequences may be if you refuse to do so?"

"I—I know nothing," she said, helplessly.

Mr. Macfarlane was sorry for her, he understood quite well what was weighing on her—she was afraid of disobeying—she thought herself too much in Mr. Sandford's hands—too much in his power. Before he had time to speak she said, hurriedly, "Perhaps it had better not be discussed, perhaps I had better do it."

But here, the thought of having no home to come to if she was unhappy—the pang of parting with the little place she so loved, where her husband had died, and each shrub and tree of which she had seen planted, was too much for her—and her quivering lips and tearful eyes awoke real sympathy in Mr. Macfarlane's heart.

"What is in your mind, Mrs. Dorriman?" he said, kindly, and putting aside his official air he leaned forward and spoke to her, inviting her to speak her confidence.

Mrs. Dorriman turned red and pale, she was troubled, and her nervousness increased.

"I cannot bear parting with the place for ever," she exclaimed, but in a low voice, "if——" In vain poor Mr. Macfarlane waited, words would not come for some time, then in a hurried way she said, "Could I sell on the understanding that I might buy it back when I chose?"

"Yes, it might be done if the money was in your own hands. Was it bought in your name or in that of Mr. Sandford?"

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "then it is hopeless!" Her countenance fell, and Mr. Macfarlane was more sorry for her than ever.

He was himself a little puzzled and anxious. He did not know how far she could keep things to herself, and he had to think before he could offer any suggestion; it would never do to be involved in an angry discussion and correspondence with Mr. Sandford. Then a certain sense of shame came to him. He hated getting into any trouble; he hated interfering, but he was an upright man. What he knew justified him in guiding her, and he could not be so mean as to let her risk losing everything when a word might help her. He was cautious, but without entering into details he might advise her. He knew that giving up her house at Mr. Sandford's bidding was probably because Mr. Sandford had good reasons for wishing her to be under his own eye, and he had enough knowledge of circumstances to make him confident that she would lose nothing by being bolder, and asserting herself a little.

"Mrs. Dorriman," he said, impressively, "I do not think that you will find it answer, either to sell the place or to make private conditions about a sale unknown to your brother. My advice to you is simply this: refuse to sell, and let the place—so pretty and pleasant a place will easily let—and point out to your brother that after your experience of investments you think it better not to sell, but to keep the rent in your own hands, which will make you independent of his assistance during your stay with him; a lady wants clothes and ... a little money for herself."

Mrs. Dorriman coloured vividly. Now exactly he understood—the remembrance of long ago, when as a girl she had been forced to go to him for every little want, and often and often had gone without things rather than face the taunts and grudging words he showered upon her, came to her now. How well! oh! how well, Mr. Macfarlane understood!

Then that hidden thought came up as it often did when memory went back to those old days, and a flash almost of terror as though she had let her secret escape her shone in her eyes and startled Mr. Macfarlane, who was watching her keenly.

"You are sure that in this instance disobeying my brother will not ... will not do harm?" she said in a faltering voice.

"I am certain of it," he said firmly, "and it is best to act quite straightforwardly—I mean," he said, hurriedly correcting himself when he saw her wince, "you would find yourself in quite a false position if you had nominally agreed to do what your brother wished and yet reserved a power which virtually neutralised the sale."

She bowed her head, "You are right, Mr. Macfarlane, and yet...."

"It is natural you should shrink from doing anything to displease him," he said, trying to follow her thoughts and fancying he had done so.

"It is not quite that—it is not only that," she murmured in a low voice.

She had purposely left the letter at home; she wanted him to help her, and yet she did not wish to show him all, or to tell him the rough terms her brother had used. Like many another person she quite forgot that a half-confidence is worse than none.

Mr. Macfarlane was more puzzled now than ever. What was really at the bottom of all this; what did she fear?

The pale slight woman before him, who had never known peace till now, had evidently some complex mode of reasoning entirely beyond his powers of divination.

Poor woman! she saw her tranquil life slipping past her beyond recall, and the problem present to her now was, how she could let Mr. Macfarlane know, she was not quite at her brother's mercy, that she held something in reserve, without allowing him to guess what that something was?

The impossibility of doing this was by turns before her with its desirability, then she joined her secret thought to his outspoken words, and said in a firm voice, "I will refuse to sell." Mr. Macfarlane was immensely surprised, but, imagining that she was simply following the advice he had given her, he was also flattered. Asking advice generally meant making up your mind beforehand and going to hear the reason for and against having done so, when it was too late to alter anything.

"I am sure you are right," he said, warming towards her, "and anything I can do——"

"You can receive the rent and forward it to me," she said, "when the place is let. I must have time," she said, with a little tremble in her voice, "to arrange and put away my things." Mr. Macfarlane was amused