“And so, Philip, I want you to go about and make yourself thoroughly acquainted with the property, so that you may be able to take things over when I die without any hitch.  I hope that you will be careful and do well by the land.  Remember that a big property like this is a sacred trust.

“And now there are two more things that I will take this opportunity to say a word to you about.  First, I see that you and your cousin George don’t get on well, and it grieves me.  You have always had a false idea of George, always, and thought that he was underhand.  Nothing could be more mistaken than such a notion.  George is a most estimable young man, and my dear brother’s only son.  I wish you would try to remember that, Philip—­blood is thicker than water, you know—­ and you will be the only two Caresfoots left when I am gone.  Now, perhaps you may think that I intend enriching George at your expense, but that is not so.  Take this key and open the top drawer of that secretaire, and give me that bundle.  This is my will.  If you care to look over it, and can understand it—­which is more than I can—­you will see that everything is left to you, with the exception of that outlying farm at Holston, those three Essex farms that I bought two years ago, and twelve thousand pounds in cash.  Of course, as you know, the Abbey House, and the lands immediately round, are entailed—­it has always been the custom to entail them for many generations.  There, put it back.  And now the last thing is, I want you to get married, Philip.  I should like to see a grandchild in the house before I die.  I want you to marry Maria Lee.  I like the girl.  She comes of a good old Marlshire stock—­our family married into hers in the year 1703.  Besides, her property would put yours into a ring-fence.  She is a sharp girl too, and quite pretty enough for a wife.  I hope you will think it over, Philip.”

“Yes, father; but perhaps she will not have me.  I am going to lunch there to-morrow.”

“I don’t think you need be afraid, Philip; but I won’t keep you any longer.  Shake hands, my boy.  You’ll perhaps think of your old father kindly when you come to stand in his shoes.  I hope you will, Philip.  We have had many a quarrel, and sometimes I have been wrong, but I have always wished to do my duty by you, my boy.  Don’t forget to make the best of your time at lunch to-morrow.”

Philip went out of his father’s study considerably touched by the kindness and consideration with which he had been treated, and not a little relieved to find his position with reference to his succession to the estate so much better than he had anticipated, and his cousin George’s so much worse.