“Yes; it’s a sum I happen to have lyin’ idle.  At this moment it’s in the Bank, on deposit, where they give you something like two-and-a-half only:  and in the ordinary way I should put it into Egyptian three per cents, or perhaps railways.  My poor dear Samuel always had a great opinion of Egypt, for some reason.  He used to say how pleasant it was in church to hear the parson readin’ about Moses and the bulrushes, and the plague of frogs and suchlike, and think he had money invested in that very place, and how different it was in these days.  Almost in his last breath he was beggin’ me to promise to stick to Egyptians, or at any rate to something at three per cent and gilt-edged:  because, you see, he’d always managed all the business and couldn’t believe that women had any real sense in money affairs. . . .  I didn’t make any promise, really; though in a sort of respect to his memory I’ve kept on puttin’ loose sums into that sort of thing.  Three per cent is a silly rate of interest, when all is said and done:  but of course the poor dear thought he was leavin’ me all alone in the world, with no friend to advise. . . .”

“I see,” said Cai, his heart beginning to beat fast.  “And it’s different now?”

“I—­I was hopin’ so,” said Mrs Bosenna softly.

Cai glanced at the back of William Skin, who had started to hum—­or rather to croon—­a tuneless song while knotting a rope to the second ladder.  No:  it was impossible to say what he wished to say in the presence of William Skin, confound him!  Skin’s deafness, Skin’s imperturbability, might have limits. . . .

“You wish me to advise you?” he controlled himself to ask.

“No, I don’t.  I wish you—­if you’ll do me the favour—­just to take the money and invest it without consultin’ me.  It’s—­well, it’s like the master in the Bible—­the man who gave out the talents. . . .  Only don’t wrap it in a napkin!” She laughed.  “I don’t even want to be told what you do with the money.  I’d rather not be told, in fact.  I want to trust you.”

“Why?”

She laughed again, this time more shyly. “‘Trust is proof,’” she answered, quoting the rustic adage.  “You have given me some right to make that proof, I think?”

Ah—­to be sure—­the letters!  She must, of course, have received his letter, along with ’Bias’s, though this was her first allusion to it. . . .  Cai’s brain worked in a whirl for some moments.  She was offering him a test; she was yielding upon honest and prudent conditions; she was as good as inviting him to win her. . . .  To do him justice, he had never—­never, at any rate, consciously—­based his wooing on her wealth.  For aught he cared, she might continue to administer all she possessed.  The comforts of Rilla Farm may have helped to attract him, but herself had been from the first the true spell.

He did not profess any knowledge of finance.  A return of four per cent on his own modest investments contented him, and he left these to Mr Rogers.