“My lady—­hem—­my lady,” said the steward, blushing, “I had a little thought, with your kind ladyship’s consent, as I have no-relations, chick or child in the world, what to do with it.”

“I should be happy to hear your plan,” said the countess, observing that the steward was anxious to communicate something.

“Why, my lady, if my lord and my honored master’s agreeable, I did think of making another codicil to master’s will in order to dispose of it.”

“Your master’s will,” said the earl laughing; “why not to your own, good Peter?”

“My honored lord,” said the steward, with great humility, “it don’t become a poor serving-man like me to make a will.”

“But how will you prove it?” said the earl, kindly, willing to convince him of his error; “you must be both dead to prove it.”

“Our wills,” said Peter, gulping his words, “will be proved on the same day.”

His master looked round at him with great affection, and both the earl and Emily were too much struck to say anything.  Peter had, however, the subject too much at heart to abandon it, just as he had broken the ice.  He anxiously wished for the countess’s consent to the scheme, for he would not affront her, even after he was dead.

“My lady—­Miss Emmy,” said Johnson, eagerly, “my plan is, if my honored master’s agreeable—­to make a codicil, and give my mite to a little—­Lady Emily Denbigh.”

“Oh!  Peter, you and uncle Benfield are both too good,” cried Emily, laughing and blushing, as she hastened to Clara and her mother.

“Thank you, thank you,” cried the delighted earl, following his wife with his eyes, and shaking the steward cordially by the hand; “and, if no better expedient be adopted by us, you have full permission to do as you please with your money.

“Peter,” said his master to him in a low tone, “you should never speak of such things prematurely; now I remember when the Earl of Pendennyss, my nephew, was first presented to me, I was struck with the delicacy and propriety of his demeanor, and the Lady Pendennyss, my niece, too; you never see any thing forward, or—­Ah!  Emmy, dear,” said the old man, tenderly interrupting himself, “you are too good to remember your old uncle,” taking one of the fine peaches she handed him from a plate.

“My lord,” said Mr. Haughton to the earl, “Mrs. Ives and myself have had a contest about the comforts of matrimony; she insists she may be quite as happy at Bolton Parsonage as in this noble castle, and with this rich prospect in view.”

“I hope,” said Francis, “you are not teaching my wife to be discontented with her humble lot—­if so, both hers and your visit will be an unhappy one.”

“It would be no easy task, if our good friend intended any such thing by his jests,” said Clara, smiling.  “I know my true interests, I trust, too well, to wish to change my fortune.”