defence against him; "For," as they said
justly, "that dreamy lover of hers knows
nothing of business;" which was true enough.
There was soon quite a large assemblage—
large, that is, for a lonely country-house; and
Magdalen was surprised to find how relieved
and protected she felt by their presence.
They all seemed nearer to her than her
brother; and all more sympathising and more
sorrowful for her loss.

"Mag, where's the will ?" said Andrew, in
a loud voice. "I suppose you know where
the old boy kept his things, don't you ?" He
spoke as the master, with the tone and
manner of a slave-driver. It was the
ultimatum of coarseness.

"In the library," said Magdalen.

"Ah, stay! In the top library drawer,
ain't it? Don't you think so? I remember
that used to be his hiding-place when I was a
little lad, and knew all about him. If so, I
can find it myself, Mag; I have the keys.
No tricks of substitution, you know, gentlemen!"
and, with a laugh and a leer, he
strode out of the room.

He soon came back, bringing a sealed
packet, endorsed "My will," in Mr. Trevelyan's
handwriting.

"Here it is, safe enough!" he said, chuckling,
and drawing a chair nearer to the
window. "Hang these plaguey blinds!" he
cried, plucking at them impatiently; "they
don't let a man see his own! Come, Mag,
let's see what he has left for your wedding
gear. Quite enough. I'll be bound, else my
name's not Andrew!"

Magdalen rose, and walked haughtily
across the room: haughtily and sorrowfully:
not wounded in her own self-love, but in her
daughter's dignity,—wounded for that dead
father whose memory was outraged by his
son. A look from one of the friends
assembled brought her back to her seat; and
she felt when he whispered "bear with
him quietly now, for the sake of your poor
father," that this was both good advice and
the highest duty; so she controlled herself
as well as she could, and sat down, feeling for
the first time in her life dishonoured.

Andrew broke the seal of the packet, and
took the will out of the envelope. Crossing
his legs, and clearing his throat, with a
certain dare-devil, "Come on, then!" kind of
air, he began to read it aloud. The will set
forth that all the lands, tenements, &c., of
which he, the testator, might die possessed,
were bequeathed to his dear son, Andrew,
with the exception of fifty pounds a-year to
be paid to Magdalen, whom he confided to
the tender care of her brother, "in full
reliance on his love and honour." The bulk of
the property was about eight hundred a-year.
It was all clear and distinct, signed and
attested in due form; but Andrew's face had
changed as he came to the close.

"Aha! What's this?" he cried, looking
fiercely at Magdalen, whose arm he seized as
she bent forward when he called her. "What
devil's work have you been after here, with
all your pretended love and sickening flattery?"
and he almost struck her, as he shook
her arm violently.

"Andrew, what are you talking of?" said
Magdalen, starting up and flinging off his
hand. ''Even at such a time as this, and
from my brother, I cannot submit to such
language."

"You are right, Magdalen! For shame,
for shame, Mr. Trevelyan!" went round
the room.

"Judge me, all of you!" exclaimed Andrew,
hoarsely, rising, and facing his sister. "Judge
me by yourselves! If any of you have seen
your very lives and the lives of your children
snatched away by a demon's turn like this, you
can feel with me, and understand my violence.
Violence it is not, but righteous and most
just anger. This was why she never told me
of my father's illness!" he added, grasping
Magdalen's shoulder, as she stood firmly
before him. "This was why she practised all
her arts, and made the old man, doting on his
death-bed, believe her devoted to him, not
his money,—he, who had never liked her in
life, making her his heir!"

"Heir!" cried Magdalen, turning pale.
"His heir!" she repeated, as if in a dream.

"Aha! I had been too honest for him,
had I!" continued Andrew, without noticing
the interruption. "I was not courtier—not
flatterer enough, wasn't I! And this was
why she has always been the firebrand
between him and me, exaggerating every little
indiscretion, and turning his love for me into
coldness as she has done lately—all to steal
a march upon me, and cut me out of my
inheritance. I, the only son, to be disinherited
for such a worthless fool as that! By Jove,
gentlemen, it is maddening! Listen to the
pretty little codicil I find," he continued, in a
tone of bitter banter, striking his forefinger
against the parchment: " 'I hereby revoke
all former wills and testaments whatsoever
or whensoever made by me, and leave to my
dear daughter, Magdalen, the sole use and
benefit of all that I may die possessed of,
whether in lands or money. I also leave her
my sole executrix. Signed, Andrew
Trevelyan. Witnesses, Paul Lefevre and Mary
Anne Taylor.'And you are in this, too,
sir!" he said, turning savagely to Paul. "By
heaven, there seems to be a pretty plot
hatched here!"

"I saw Mr. Trevelyan sign that paper,
and I and Mary Anne Taylor witnessed it;
but I did not know what it was I signed,"
answered Paul, hesitatingly.

Andrew bent his bloodshot eyes full upon
him; and from him to Magdalen, and back
again. He looked at the writing of the
codicil attentively—a profound silence in the
room—and again he looked at them.

"Where is this Mary Anne Taylor?" he
asked, in a hoarse whisper.