‘What! against your father?’

’Against! no, not against anybody.  But will you tell Mary she has your consent?’

‘I think she knows that.’

‘But you have never said anything to her?’

’Look here, Frank; you ask me for my advice, and I will give it you:  go home, though, indeed, I would rather you went anywhere else.’

‘No, I must go home; and I must see her.’

’Very well, go home:  as for seeing Mary, I think you had better put it off for a fortnight.’

‘Quite impossible.’

’Well, that’s my advice.  But, at any rate, make up your mind to nothing for a fortnight.  Wait for one fortnight, and I then will tell you plainly—­you and her too—­what I think you ought to do.  At the end of a fortnight come to me, and tell the squire that I will take it as a great kindness if he will come with you.  She has suffered terribly, terribly; and it is necessary that something should be settled.  But a fortnight can make no great difference.’

‘And the letter?’

‘Oh! there’s the letter.’

‘But what shall I say?  Of course I shall write to her to-night.’

’Tell her to wait a fortnight.  And, Frank, mind you bring your father with you.’

Frank could draw nothing further from his friend save constant repetitions of this charge to him to wait a fortnight,—­just one other fortnight.

‘Well, I will come to you at any rate,’ said Frank; ’and, if possible, I will bring my father.  But I shall write to Mary to-night.’

On the Saturday morning, Mary, who was then nearly broken-hearted at her lover’s silence, received a short note:—­

’My own Mary

’I shall be home to-morrow.  I will by no means release you from your promise.  Of course you will perceive that I only got your letter to-day.’

Your own dearest,
frank.’

Short as it was, this sufficed Mary.  It is one thing for a young lady to make prudent, heart-breaking suggestions, but quite another to have them accepted.  She did call him dearest Frank, even on that one day, almost as often as he had desired her.

CHAPTER XLVI

OUR PET FOX FINDS A TAIL

Frank returned home, and his immediate business was of course with his father, and with Mr Gazebee, who was still at Greshamsbury.

‘But who is the heir?’ asked Mr Gazebee, when Frank had explained that the death of Sir Louis rendered unnecessary any immediate legal steps.

‘Upon my word, I don’t know,’ said Frank.

‘You saw Dr Thorne,’ said the squire.  ‘He must have known.’

‘I never thought of asking him,’ said Frank, naively.

Mr Gazebee looked rather solemn.  ‘I wonder at that,’ said he; ’for everything depends on the hands the property will go into.  Let me see; I think Sir Roger had a married sister.  Was not that so, Mr Gresham?’ And then it occurred for the first time, both to the squire and to his son, that Mary Thorne was the eldest child of this sister.  But it never occurred to either of them that Mary could be the baronet’s heir.