“It is best not,” said Helen, earnestly.

“Well, my will is made.  And though in it I left nothing to Mr. Menteith himself, seeing that such a return of his kindness would be very unwelcome, I insisted doing what was equivalent—­bequeathing a thousand pounds to each of his children.  Was I right in that?  You do not object”?

“Most assuredly not,” answered Helen, though a little surprised at the question.  Still, she was so long accustomed to be consulted by the earl, and to give her opinion frankly and freely on all points, that the surprise was only momentary.

“And, by the way, I mean to leave the same sum—­one thousand pounds —­to my cousin, Captain Bruce.  Remember that, Helen; remember it particularly, will you?  In case any thing should happen before I have time to add this to my will.  But to the Menteiths.  Your father thinks, and I agree with him, that the money I design for them will be far better spent now, or some portion of it, in helping these fatherless children on in the world, than in keeping them waiting for my death, which may not happen for years.  What do you think?”

Helen agreed heartily.  It would cause a certain diminution of yearly income, but then the earl had far more than enough for his own wants, and if not spent thus, the sum would certainly have been expended by him some other form of benevolence.  She said as much.

“Possibly it might.  What else should I do with it?” was Lord Cairnforth’s answer.  “But, in order to get at the money, and alter my will, so that in no case should this sum be paid twice over, to the injury of my heir—­I must take care of my heir,” and he slightly smiled, “I ought to go at once to Edinburg.  Shall I?”

Helen hesitated.  The earl’s last journey had been so unpropitious—­ he had taken so long a time to recover from it—­that she had earnestly hoped he would never attempt another.  She expressed this as delicately as she could.

“No, I never would have attempted it for myself.  Change is only pain and weariness to me.  I have no wish to leave dear, familiar Cairnforth till I leave it for—­the place where my good old friend is now.  And sometimes, Helen, I fancy the hills of Paradise will not be very unlike the hills about our loch.  You would think of me far away, when you were looking at them sometimes?”

Helen fixed her tender eyes upon him—­“It is quite as likely that you may have to think of me thus, for I may go first; I am the elder of us two.  But all that is in God’s hands alone.  About Edinburg now.  When should you start?”

“At once, I think; though, with my slow traveling, I should not be in time for the funeral; and even if I were, I could not attend it without giving much trouble to other people.  But, as your father has shown me, the funeral does not signify.  The great matter is to be of use to Mrs. Menteith and the children in the way I explained.  Have I your consent, my dear!”