“Oh, with pleasure,” answered the lawyer, his tone that of one invited to a funeral.  “You may count on me.”

“We’re winding up at Sherwood’s.  I don’t mean in bankruptcy; but that wouldn’t be far off if we kept going.”

“Ah!  I can well understand that,” said Mr. Turnbull, with a gleam of satisfaction.  Though a thoroughly kind man, it always brightened him to hear of misfortune, especially when he had himself foretold it; and he had always taken the darkest view of Will’s prospects in Little Ailie Street.

“I have a project I should like to talk over with you—­”

“Ah?” said the lawyer anxiously.

“As it concerns my mother and Jane—­”

“Ah?” said Mr. Turnbull, with profound despondency.

“Then we shall expect you.—­Will it rain, do you think?”

“I fear so.  The glass is very low indeed.  It wouldn’t surprise me if we had rain through the whole month of August.”

“Good Heavens!  I hope not,” replied Will laughing.

He drove out of the town again, in a different direction, for about a mile.  On rising ground, overlooking the green valley of the Ouse, stood a small, plain, solidly-built house, sheltered on the cold side by a row of fine hawthorns, nearly as high as the top of its chimneys.  In front, bordered along the road by hollies as impenetrable as a stone wall, lay a bright little flower garden.  The Haws, originally built for the bailiff of an estate, long since broken up, was nearly a century old.  Here Will’s father was born, and here, after many wanderings, he had spent the greater part of his married life.

“Sam,” said Will, as they drew up at the gate, “I don’t think I shall pay for this drive.  You’re much richer than I am.”

“Very good, sir,” was the chuckling reply, for Sam knew he always had to expect a joke of this kind from young Mr. Warburton.  “As you please, sir.”

“You couldn’t lend me half-a-crown, Sam?”

“I daresay I could, sir, if you really wanted it.”

“Do then.”

Will pocketed the half-crown, jumped off the trap, and took his bag.

“After all, Sam, perhaps I’d better pay.  Your wife might grumble.  Here you are.”

He handed two shillings and sixpence in small change, which Sam took and examined with a grin of puzzlement.

“Well, what’s the matter?  Don’t you say thank you, nowadays?”

“Yes, sir—­thank you, sir—­it’s all right, Mr. Will.”

“I should think it is indeed.  Be here to-morrow morning, to catch the 6.30 up train, Sam.”

As Will entered the garden, there came forward a girl of something and twenty, rather short, square shouldered, firmly planted on her feet, but withal brisk of movement; her face was remarkable for nothing but a grave good-humour.  She wore a broad-brimmed straw hat, and her gardening gloves showed how she was occupied.  Something of shyness appeared in the mutual greeting of brother and sister.