“His father could trust his eldest son,” declared Mr. Churchouse, “and, as I happen to know, Daniel, you always spoke with patience and reason about Raymond—­your father has told me so.  It was natural and wise, therefore, that my late dear friend should have left Raymond to you.”

“I only want to do my duty,” said the young man.  “By stopping away to-day Raymond hasn’t made me feel any kinder to him, and if he were not so stupid in some ways, he must have known it would be so; but I am not going to let that weigh against him.  How do you read the fact that my father directs Raymond’s allowance to cease, Uncle Ernest?”

Mr. Churchouse bore no real connection to the Ironsydes; but his relations had always been close and cordial after he relinquished his share in the business of the mills, and the younger generation was brought up to call him ‘uncle.’

“I read it like this,” answered the elder.  “It means that Raymond is to look to you in future, and that henceforth you may justly demand that he should not live in idleness.  There is nothing more demoralising for youth than to live upon money it doesn’t earn.  I should say—­subject to your aunt’s opinion, to which I attach the greatest importance—­that it is your place to give your brother an interest in life and to show him, what you know already, the value and dignity of work.”

“I entirely agree,” said Jenny Ironsyde.  “I can go further and declare from personal knowledge that my brother had shadowed the idea in his mind.”

They both regarded Daniel.

“Then leave it there,” he bade them, “leave it there and I’ll think it out.  My father was the fairest man I ever met, and I’ll try and be as fair.  It’s up to Raymond more than me.”

“You can bring a horse to the water, though you can’t make him drink,” admitted Mr. Churchouse.  “But if you bring your horse to the water, you’ve done all that reason and sense may ask you to do.”

Miss Ironsyde, from larger knowledge of the circumstances, felt disposed to carry the question another step.  She opened her mouth and drew in her breath to speak—­making that little preliminary sound only audible when nothing follows it.  But she did not speak.

“Come into the garden and see Magnolia grandiflora,” said Mr. Churchouse.  “There are twelve magnificent blossoms open this morning, and I should have picked every one of them for my dear friend’s grave, only the direction was clear, that there were to be no flowers.”

“Henry disliked any attempt to soften the edges at such a time,” explained the dead man’s sister.  “He held that death was the skeleton at the feast of life—­a wholesome and stark reminder to the thoughtless living that the grave is the end of our mortal days.  He liked a funeral to be a funeral—­black—­black.  He did not want the skeleton at the feast to be decked in roses and lilies.”

“An opinion worthy of all respect,” declared Mr. Churchouse.