’Suppose anything happened to me, and they were left to themselves.  I have money to leave between them, and of course they know it.  How could it do them anything but harm?  Do you know that Horace wants to marry that girl Fanny French—­a grinning, chattering fool—­if not worse.  He has told me he shall do as he likes.  Whether or no it was right to educate Nancy, I am very sure that I ought to have done with him as I meant at first.  He hasn’t the brains to take a good position.  When his schooling went on year after year, I thought at last to make of him something better than his father—­a doctor, or a lawyer.  But he hadn’t the brains:  he disappointed me bitterly.  And what use can he make of my money, when I’m in my grave?  If I die soon he’ll marry, and ruin his life.  And won’t it be the same with Nancy?  Some plotting, greedy fellow—­the kind of man you see everywhere now-a-days, will fool her for the money’s sake.’

’We must hope they’ll be much older and wiser before they have to act for themselves,’ said Mary, looking into her master’s troubled face.

‘Yes!’ He came nearer to her, with a sudden hopefulness.  ’And whether I live much longer or not, I can do something to guard them against their folly.  They needn’t have the money as soon as I am gone.’

He seated himself in front of his companion.

’I want to ask you something, Mary.  If they were left alone, would you be willing to live here still, as you do now, for a few more years?’

‘I shall do whatever you wish—­whatever you bid me, Mr. Lord,’ answered the woman, in a voice of heartfelt loyalty.

‘You would stay on, and keep house for them?’

‘But would they go on living here?’

’I could make them do so.  I could put it down as a condition, in my will.  At all events, I would make Nancy stay.  Horace might live where he liked—­though not with money to throw about.  They have no relatives that could be of any use to them.  I should wish Nancy to go on living here, and you with her; and she would only have just a sufficient income, paid by my old friend Barmby, or by his son.  And that till she was—­what?  I have thought of six-and-twenty.  By that time she would either have learnt wisdom, or she never would.  She must be free sooner or later.’

‘But she couldn’t live by herself, Mr. Lord.’

‘You tell me you would stay,’ he exclaimed impulsively.

‘Oh, but I am only her servant.  That wouldn’t be enough.’

’It would be.  Your position shall be changed.  There’s no one living to whom I could trust her as I could to you.  There’s no woman I respect so much.  For twenty years you have proved yourself worthy of respect—­and it shall be paid to you.’

His vehemence would brook no opposition.

’You said you would do as I wished.  I wish you to have a new position in this house.  You shall no longer be called a servant; you shall be our housekeeper, and our friend.  I will have it, I tell you!’ he cried angrily.  ’You shall sit at table with us, and live with us.  Nancy still has sense enough to acknowledge that this is only your just reward; from her, I know, there won’t be a word of objection.  What can you have to say against it?’