“Your affectionate father,

“JOHN SCARBOROUGH.”

“I think that the odd volumes will fetch him.  He was always fond of literature.”

“I suppose it means the entire library?” replied Merton.

“And he likes tables and chairs.  I think he will come and look after the tables and chairs.”

“Why not beds and washhand-stands?” said Mr. Merton.

“Well, yes; he may have the beds and washhand-stands.  Mountjoy is not a fool, and will understand very well what I mean.  I wonder whether I could scrape the paper off the drawing-room walls, and leave the scraps to his brother, without interfering with the entail?  But now I am tired, and will rest.”

But he did not even then go to rest, but lay still scheming, scheming, scheming, about the property.  There was now another letter to be written, for the writing of which he would not again summon Mr. Merton.  He was half ashamed to do so, and at last sent for his sister.  “Martha,” said he, “I want you to write a letter for me.”

“Mr. Merton has been writing letters for you all the morning.”

“That’s just the reason why you should write one now.  I am still in some slight degree afraid of his authority, but I am not at all afraid of yours.”

“You ought to be quiet, John; indeed you ought.”

“And, in order that I may be quiet, you must write this letter.  It’s nothing particular, or I should not have asked you to do it.  It’s only an invitation.”

“An invitation to ask somebody here?”

“Yes; to ask somebody to come here.  I don’t know whether he’ll come.”

“Do I know him?”

“I hope you may, if he comes.  He’s a very good-looking young man, if that is anything.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, John.”

“But I believe he’s engaged to another young lady, with whom I must beg you not to interfere.  You remember Florence?”

“Florence Mountjoy?  Of course I remember my own niece.”

“The young man is engaged to her.”

“She was intended for poor Mountjoy.”

“Poor Mountjoy has put himself beyond all possibility of a wife.”

“Poor Mountjoy!”—­and the soft-hearted aunt almost shed tears.

“But we haven’t to do with Mountjoy now.  Sit down there and begin.  ’Dear Mr. Annesley—­’”

“Oh!  It’s Mr. Annesley, is it?”

“Yes, it is.  Mr. Annesley is the handsome young man.  Have you any objection?”

“Only people do say—­”

“What do they say?”

“Of course I don’t know; only I have heard—­”

“That he is a scoundrel!”

“Scoundrel is very strong,” said the old lady, shocked.

“A villain, a liar, a thief, and all the rest of it.  That’s what you have heard.  And I’ll tell you who has been your informant.  Either first or second hand, it has come to you from Mr. Augustus Scarborough.  Now we’ll begin again.  ‘Dear Mr. Annesley—­’” The old lady paused a moment, and then, setting herself firmly to the task, commenced and finished her letter, as follows: