“Were there any in this world who might be supposed to be exempt from care, it is you,” said Mr. Bitterworth, leaning towards the invalid, his hale old face expressing the concern he felt.  “I should have judged you to be perfectly free from earthly care.  You have no children; what can be troubling you?”

“Would to Heaven I had children!” exclaimed Mr. Verner; and the remark appeared to break from him involuntarily, in the bitterness of his heart.

“You have your brother’s son, your heir, Lionel.”

“He is no heir of mine,” returned Mr. Verner, with, if possible, double bitterness.

“No heir of yours!” repeated Mr. Bitterworth, gazing at his friend, and wondering whether he had lost his senses.

Mr. Verner, on his part, gazed on vacancy, his thoughts evidently cast inwards.  He sat in his old favourite attitude; his hands clasped on the head of his stick, and his face bent down upon it.  “Bitterworth,” said he presently “when I made my will years ago, after my father’s death, I appointed you one of the executors.”

“I know it,” replied Mr. Bitterworth.  “I was associated—­as you gave me to understand—­with Sir Rufus Hautley.”

“Ay.  After the boy came of age,”—­and Mr. Bitterworth knew that he alluded to Lionel—­“I added his name to those of Sir Rufus and yourself.  Legacies apart, the estate was all left to him.”

“Of course it was,” assented Mr. Bitterworth.

“Since then, I have seen fit to make an alteration,” continued Mr. Verner.  “I mention it to you, Bitterworth, that you may not be surprised when you hear the will read.  Also I would tell you that I made the change of my own free act and judgment, unbiassed by any one, and that I did not make it without ample cause.  The estate is not left to Lionel Verner, but to Frederick Massingbird.”

Mr. Bitterworth had small round eyes, but they opened now to their utmost width.  “What did you say?” he repeated, after a pause, like a man out of breath.

“Strictly speaking, the estate is not bequeathed to Frederick Massingbird; he will inherit it in consequence of John’s death,” quietly went on Mr. Verner.  “It is left to John Massingbird, and to Frederick after him, should he be the survivor.  Failing them both——­”

“And I am still executor?” interrupted Mr. Bitterworth, in a tone raised rather above the orthodox key for a sick-room.

“You and Sir Rufus.  That, so far, is not altered.”

“Then I will not act.  No, Stephen Verner, long and close as our friendship has been, I will not countenance an act of injustice.  I will not be your executor, unless Verner’s Pride goes, as it ought, to Lionel Verner.”

“Lionel has forfeited it.”

“Forfeited it!—­how can he have forfeited it?  Is this”—­Mr. Bitterworth was given to speak in plain terms when excited—­“is this the underhand work of Mrs. Verner?”

“Peace, Bitterworth!  Mrs. Verner knows nothing of the change.  Her surviving son knows nothing of it; John knew nothing of it.  They have no idea but that Lionel is still the heir.  You should not jump to unjust conclusions.  Not one of them has ever asked me how my property was left; or has attempted, by the smallest word, to influence me in its disposal.”