of the six investors who had any real property, and the consequence was that the whole loss fell upon his unfortunate shoulders.

To Inchbrae, his wife's little property, his thoughts turned. There he went and there he died; and it was only then, as before said, that a glimmer of reproach at her want of understanding touched his wife, and she had kissed him tenderly.

The record in his book that troubled Mr. Sandford's peace was not any written record, it was what was left blank. After detailing various papers there came this:—

Letters from John Sandford.

1. About the broken fences at Ardenthird.

2. " sale of larch-poles.

3. " advice on the subject of wool.

4. Papers and memorandums of his conversation about my wife's money.

5. Memorandums, written verbatim on same subject.

6. Certified copies, verbatim, on same subject.

7. Certified copies, verbatim, on same subject.

8. Transcribed conversation word for word.

9. Have not succeeded in seeing my father-in-law's will.

10. Copy of paper ... old Mr. Sandford.

What did all these last memorandums refer to? He had not seen the will. What paper had he a copy of, and why had he had that paper copied, and who had copied it for him? This book which John Sandford carried away with him gave him the most endless and intense anxiety. His own conscience spoke of a thousand things, a thousand transactions between them, that must not see the light. The very vagueness of it all was an additional trouble to him.

Through the day this annoyance pressed upon him, but through the night these shadows became real fears. He tormented himself in vain. Sixth and seventh all blank. Those unwritten words might be of terrible moment to him, for, as all men have their ambition in one or another corner, John Sandford had his—to be looked up to and to be respected. He was wealthy, but he remembered enough of the old days to know that mere wealth would bring but outward respect, and that character was the real power there, in that land where he craved for power. For power was what he really loved; he loved to feel that his will was law, and till his poor half-sister married he had made her feel this, as he tried to make every one else feel it. When he received her answer he was absolutely frantic; the least opposition to his will made him all the more resolute to enforce it, and he knew immediately that in some way unknown to him she had gathered strength. There was an assertion of herself in her answer both new and unexpected. All the more was he determined she should come under his roof. There was another reason, though he thought of it as a reason only when the desirability of her being under his own immediate supervision became so evident to him.

Mr. Sandford had married when in India, though, as his wife died within the year, and no one had ever seen her in Scotland, the fact was often entirely forgotten.

How his marriage would have turned out eventually is more than any one can say, but it had been the one softening influence in his life, and the one real grief had been his wife's loss. She had a twin sister who died before her, leaving two little girls, and the one request she had time to make was that he would always befriend these children for her sake; she made him promise this. Under the softening influences of the moment he had written to their relations telling them of his promise, and assuring them of his intention to keep his word if called upon to do so.

Having done this, and having received letters expressive of their gratitude, he forgot them as completely as though no such children existed.

Four years before the time when Mrs. Dorriman sat in tears at Inchbrae, in the arms of her faithful Jean, Mr. Sandford received a letter the purport of which was, that the little girls were now orphans, their circumstances not so good as might be, and in consequence of his promise (vide copy of letter inclosed) the old lady who had cared for them wrote to him for assistance and advice.

And he gave both, and assisted them at school, and now when these girls were respectively 18 and 16 he was once more asked in what way he intended to befriend them, and if they might still look to him for counsel and assistance?

CHAPTER III.

Mr. Sandford, having arranged through his banker about the small payments annually required for the two children, Grace and Margaret Rivers, had never given them much thought since. Their own money had made his payments of small account, though something had been necessary, and the payment of that something was as necessary to his sense of what his promise to his wife meant, as to the comfort and well-being of the children themselves. Having fulfilled what he conceived his duty his mind was at ease; he had kept his promise and it had not inconvenienced him. He was essentially a man who thought that all obligations could be wiped off by money, in some shape or other. When he went to church, which he did only because it was the right thing to do, he gave largely, comprising the whole extent of the charity which was expected of him in that one gift. He gave always the same sum, and felt then that he had done his duty, but he could never understand why people talked sometimes of the "blessedness of giving" and of "a glow of satisfaction." He felt no glow, and, not being by nature a generous man, he thought giving a disagreeable thing; it would have been more disagreeable if he had had less to give; even as it was, he grudged it, and considered it as a very tiresome part of his position.

When he got the letter asking his future wishes about the girls he was very much annoyed. He was not well, having caught cold, and, as he was a man who never showed the slightest consideration for his servants, he had no old servants. There was no one in his house who took any interest in him; he was their paymaster and taskmaster, nothing more. His cold became feverish and he was really ill, so ill that he, for the first time, felt his loneliness. When he rang, his bell was promptly answered, and the trifle he wanted, more because he wanted an excuse to have some one near him, even for a moment, than from any real want, given to him; he lay in lonely state, and felt his loneliness terribly. The undefined dread about his half-sister, the shadowy fears of what those blanks in the list might mean, came and tormented him. There is an old and pathetic saying that deeds of kindness are the brightest lamps round a man's death-bed, but he had no such lamps; he had lived for himself; he could remember nothing, no words of gratitude, for he had earned none: worse than that, he had not always been just in his dealings. Then this letter came and here was a new complication.

He was worse than ever next day; all through the night his fears had been exaggerated and had kept him awake, and in the morning the doctor was sent for—for the first time he wanted one. When he came he was struck by the desolate and uncomfortable look of the rich man's surroundings; his servants were too much afraid of him to spend one unnecessary moment in his company; the contrast between services paid for, and services given from love and affection, were startling to a man who saw the poor in their hours of sickness, and who saw the tenderness of heart and the care amongst them, however roughly it might be shown. He knew little of the man before him, except that he had been a hard man to his brother-in-law and to the half-sister whom he had seen in former days, by the father's side, so often; but he was full of compassion for him and for his want of womanly care and kindness.

"You should have womankind, in some way, about you," he said. "You are not so ill; you will pull through this all right; but you may be ill again, and you need care and kindness. What a pity you have no family! Many a man would marry if he could look forward and see himself left to the mercy of servants and