On one point, however, Angela’s efforts failed completely; she could make no headway with her father. He shrank more than ever from her society, and at last asked her to oblige him by allowing him to follow his own path in peace. Of Arthur’s death he had never spoken to her, or she to him, but she knew that he had heard of it.

Philip had heard of it thus. On that Christmas afternoon he had been taking his daily exercise when he met Lady Bellamy returning from the Abbey House. The carriage stopped, and she got out to speak to him.

“Have you been to the Abbey House to pay a Christmas visit?” he asked. “It is very kind of you to come and see us so soon after your return.”

“I am the bearer of bad news, so I did not loiter.”

“Bad news! what was it?”

“Mr. Heigham is dead,” she answered, watching his face narrowly.

“Dead, impossible!”

“He died of enteric fever at Madeira. I have just been to break the news to Angela.”

“Oh, indeed, she will be pained; she was very fond of him, you know.”

Lady Bellamy smiled contemptuously.

“Did you ever see any one put to the extremest torture? If you have, you can guess how your daughter was ‘pained.’”

Philip winced.

“Well, I can’t help it, it is no affair of mine. Good-bye,” and then, as soon as she was out of hearing; “I wonder if she lies, or if she has murdered him. George must have been putting on the screw.”

Into the particulars of Arthur Heigham’s death, or supposed death, he never inquired. Why should he? It was no affair of his; he had long ago washed his hands of the whole matter, and left things to take their chance. If he was dead, well and good, he was very sorry for him; if he was alive, well and good also. In that case, he would no doubt arrive on the appointed date to marry Angela.

But, notwithstanding all this unanswerable reasoning, he still found it quite impossible to look his daughter in the face. Her eyes still burnt him, ay, even more than ever did they burn, for her widowed dress and brow were agony to him, and rent his heart, not with remorse but fear. But still his greed kept the upper hand, though death by mental torture must result, yet he would glut himself with his desire. More than ever he hungered for those wide lands which, if only things fell out right, would become his at so ridiculous a price. Decidedly Arthur Heigham’s death was “no affair of his.”

About six weeks before Angela’s conversation with Mr. Fraser which ended in her undertaking parish work, a rumour had got about that George Caresfoot had been taken ill, very seriously ill. It was said that a chill had settled on his lungs, which had never been very strong since his fever, and that he had, in short, gone into a consumption.

Of George, Angela had neither seen nor heard anything for some time — not since she received the welcome letter in which he relinquished his suit. She had, indeed, with that natural readiness of the human mind to forget unpleasant occurrences, thought but little about him of late, since her mind had been more fully occupied with other and more pressing things. Still she vaguely wondered at times if he was really so ill as her father thought.

One day she was walking home by the path round the lake, after paying a visit to a sick child in the village, when she suddenly came face to face with her father. She expected that he would as usual pass on without addressing her, and drew to one side of the path to allow him to do so, but to her surprise he stopped.

“Where have you been, Angela?”

“To see Ellen Mim; she is very ill, poor child.”

“You had better be careful; you will be catching scarlet fever or something — there is a great deal about.”

“I am not at all afraid.”

“Yes; but you never think that you may bring it home to me.”

“I never thought that there was any likelihood of my bringing anything to you. We see so little of each other.”

“Well, well, I have been to Isleworth to see your cousin George; he is very ill.”

“You told me that he was ill some time back. What is it that is really the matter with him?”

“Galloping consumption. He cannot last long.”

“Poor man, why does he not go to a warmer climate?”

“I don’t know — that is his affair. But it is a serious matter for me. If he dies under present circumstances, all the Isleworth estates, which are mine by right, must pass away from the family forever.”

“Why must they pass away?”

“Because your grandfather, with a refined ingenuity, made a provision in his will that George was not to leave them back to me, as he was telling me this afternoon he is anxious to do. If he were to die now with a will in my favour, or without any will at all, they would all go to some far away cousins in Scotland.”

“He died of heart-disease, did he not?— my grandfather, I mean?”

Philip’s face grew black as night, and he shot a quick glance of suspicion at his daughter.

“I was saying,” he went on, without answering her question, “that George may sell the land or settle it, but must not leave it to me or you, nor can I take under an intestacy.”

Angela did not understand these legal intricacies, and knew about as much about the law of intestacy as she did of Egyptian inscriptions.

“Well,” she said, consolingly, “I am very sorry, but it can’t be helped, can it?”

“The girl is a born fool,” muttered Philip beneath his breath, and passed on.

A week or so afterwards, just when the primroses and Lent-lilies were at the meridian of their beauty and all the air was full of song, Angela heard more about her cousin George. Mr. Fraser was one day sent for to Isleworth; Lady Bellamy brought him the message, saying that George was in such a state of health that he wished to see a clergyman.

“I never saw a worse case,” he said to Angela on his ............