looked up wistfully to the blue sky.
"At all events, he is at peace now," she said, her lip quivering. "I know he was often very unhappy, poor father! He used to sit for hours frowning and perplexed, as if there was something terrible on his mind."
Alan's face was turned away now, and his brow was wrinkled. He seemed absorbed in thought, as though striving to elucidate some problem suggested by her words.
Wrapped up in her own sorrow, the girl did not notice his momentary preoccupation, but continued:
"He never said good-bye to me. Dr. Warrender said he was insensible for so long before death that it was useless my seeing him. He kept me out of the room, so I only saw him--afterwards. I'll never forgive the doctor for it. It was cruel!"
She sobbed hysterically.
"Sophy," said Alan suddenly, "had your father any enemies?"
She looked round at him in astonishment.
"I don't know. I don't think so. Why should he? He was the kindest man in the world."
"I am sure he was," replied the young man warmly; "but even the kindest may have enemies."
"He might have made enemies in Africa," she said gravely. "It was there he made his money, and I suppose there are people mean enough to hate a man who is successful, especially if his success results in a fortune of some two millions. Father used to say he despised most people. That was why he lived so quietly at the Moat House."
"It was particularly quiet till you came, Sophy."
"I'm sure it was," she replied, with the glimmer of a smile. "Still, although he had not me, you had your profession."
"Ah! my poor profession! I always regret having given it up."
"Why did you?"
"You know, Sophy. I have told you a dozen times. I wanted to be a surgeon, but my father always objected to a Thorold being of service to his fellow-creatures. I could never understand why. The estate was not entailed, and by my father's will I was to lose it, or give up all hope of becoming a doctor. For my mother's sake I surrendered. But I would choose to be a struggling surgeon in London any day, if it were not for you, Sophy dear."
"Horrid!" ejaculated Miss Marlow, elevating her nose. "How can you enjoy cutting up people? But don't let us talk of these things; they remind me of poor dear father."
"My dear, you really should not be so morbid. Death is only natural. It is not as though you had been with him all your life, instead of merely three years."
"I know; but I loved him none the less for that. I often wonder why he was away so long."
"He was making his fortune. He could not have taken you into the rough life he was leading in Africa. You were quite happy in your convent."
"Quite," she agreed, with conviction. "I was sorry to leave it. The dear sisters were like mothers to me. I never knew my own mother. She died in Jamaica, father said, when I was only ten years old. He could not bear to remain in the West Indies after she died, so he brought me to England. While I was in the convent I saw him only now and again until I had finished my education. Then he took the Moat House--that was five years ago, and two years after that I came to live with him. That is all our history, Alan. But Joe Brill might know if he had any enemies."
"Yes, he might. He lived thirty years with your father, didn't he? But he can keep his own counsel--no one better."
"You are good at it too, Alan. Where were you last night? You did not come to see me."
He moved uneasily. He had his own reasons for not wishing to give a direct answer.
"I went for a long walk--to--to--to think out one or two things. When I got back it was too late to see you."
"What troubled you, Alan? You have looked very worried lately. I am sure you are in some trouble. Tell me, dear; I must share all you troubles."
"My dearest, I am in no trouble"--he kissed her hand--"but I am your trustee, you know and it is no sinecure to have the management of two millions."
"It's too much money," she said. "Let us dispose of some of it, then you need not be worried. Can I do what I like with it?"
"Most of it--there are certain legacies, will tell you about them later."
"I am afraid the estate will be troublesome to us, Alan. It's strange we should have so much money when we don't care about it. Now, there is Dr. Warrender, working his life out for that silly extravagant wife of his!"
"He is very much in love with her, nevertheless."
"I suppose that's why he works so hard. But she's a horrid woman, and cares not a snap of her fingers for him--not to speak of love! Love! why, she doesn't know the meaning of the word. We do!" And, bending over, Sophy kissed him.
Then promptly there came from Miss Parsh the reminder that it was time for tea.
"Very well, Vicky, I dare say Alan would like you to give him a cup," replied Sophy.
"Frivolous as ever, Sophia! I give up a hope of forming your character--now!"
"Alan is doing that," replied the girl.
In spite of her sorrow, Sophy became fairly cheerful on the way back to the hotel. Not so Alan. He was silent and thoughtful, and evidently meditating about the responsibilities of the Marlow estate. As they walked along the parade with their chaperon close behind, they came upon a crowd surrounding a fat man dressed in dingy black. He was reciting a poem, and his voice boomed out like a great organ. As they passed, Alan noticed that he darted a swift glance at them, and eyed Miss Marlow in a particularly curious manner. The recitation was just finished, and the hat was being sent round. Sophy, always kind-hearted, dropped in a shilling. The man chuckled.
"Thank you, lady," said he; "the first of many I hope."
Alan frowned, and drew his fiancée away. He took little heed of the remark at the time; but it occurred to him later, when circumstances had arisen which laid more stress on its meaning.
Miss Vicky presided over the tea--a gentle feminine employment in which she excelled. She did most of the talking; for Sophy was silent, and Alan inclined to monosyllables. The good lady announced that she was anxious to return to Heathton.
"The house weighs on my mind," said she, lifting her cup with the little finger curved. "The servants are not to be trusted. I fear Mrs. Crammer is addicted to ardent spirits. Thomas and Jane pay too much attention to one another. I feel a conviction that, during my absence, the bonds of authority will have loosened."
"Joe," said Alan, setting down his cup; "Joe is a great disciplinarian."
"On board a ship, no doubt," assented Miss Vicky; "but a rough sailor cannot possibly know how to control a household. Joseph is a fine, manly fellow, but boisterous--very boisterous. It needs my eye to make domestic matters go smoothly. When will you be ready to return, Sophy, my dear?"
"In a week--but Alan has suggested that we should go abroad."
"What!
