The dismal evening came to an end at last, and Marian bade her father good-night, and went upstairs to the little room where the traces of his boyhood had interested her so keenly when first she looked upon them.  Mr. Nowell promised to come to Queen Anne’s Court at a quarter past six next morning, to escort his daughter to the station, an act of parental solicitude she had not expected from him.  He took his departure immediately afterwards, being let out of the shop-door by Luke Tulliver, who was in a very cantankerous humour, and took no pains to disguise the state of his feelings.  The lawyer Mr. Medler had pried into everything, the shopman told Percival Nowell; had declared himself empowered to do this, as the legal adviser of the deceased; and had seemed as suspicious as if he, Luke Tulliver, meant to rob his dead master.  Mr. Tulliver’s sensitive nature had been outraged by such a line of conduct.

“And what has he done with the books?” Mr. Nowell asked.

“They’re all in the desk yonder, and that fellow Medler has taken away the keys.”

“Sharp practice,” said Mr. Nowell; “but to a man with your purity of intention it can’t matter what precautions are taken to insure the safety of the property.”

“Of course it don’t matter,” the other answered peevishly; “but I like to be treated as a gentleman.”

“Humph!  And you expect to retain your place here, I suppose, if the business is carried on?”

“It’s too good a business to be let drop,” replied Mr. Tulliver; “but I shouldn’t think that young lady upstairs would be much of a hand at trade.  I wouldn’t mind offering a fair price for the business,—­I’ve got a tidy little bit of money put away, though my salary has been small enough, goodness knows; but I’ve lived with the old gentleman, and never wasted a penny upon pleasure; none of your music-halls, or dancing-saloons, or anything of that kind, for me,—­or I wouldn’t mind paying an annual sum out of the profits of the trade for a reasonable term.  If you’ve any influence with the young lady, perhaps you could put it to her, and get her to look at things in that light,” Mr. Tulliver added, becoming quite obsequious as it dawned upon him that this interloping stranger might be able to do him a service.

“I’ll do my best for you, Tulliver,” Mr. Nowell replied, in a patronising tone.  “I daresay the young lady will be quite willing to entertain any reasonable proposition you may make.”

Faithful to his promise Mr. Nowell appeared at a quarter past six next morning, at which hour he found his daughter quite ready for her journey.  She was very glad to get away from that dreary house, made a hundredfold more dismal by the sense of what lay in the closed chamber, where the candles were still burning in the yellow fog of the November morning, and to which Marian had gone with hushed footsteps to kneel for the last time beside the old man who was so near her by the ties of relationship, and whom