“Of course, you got my letter this morning?” said Will.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Turnbull is coming up to-night.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Jane thoughtfully, rubbing her gloves together to shake off moist earth.

“Of course he’ll prophesy disaster, and plunge you both into the depths of discouragement.  But I don’t mind that. 1 feel so confident myself that I want some one to speak on the other side.  He’ll have to make inquiries, of course.—­Where’s mother?”

The question was answered by Mrs. Warburton herself, who at that moment came forth from the house; a tall, graceful woman, prematurely white-headed, and enfeebled by ill-health.  Between her and Jane there was little resemblance of feature; Will, on the other hand, had inherited her oval face, arched brows and sensitive mouth.  Emotion had touched her cheek with the faintest glow, but ordinarily it was pale as her hand.  Nothing, however, of the invalid declared itself in her tone or language; the voice, soft and musical, might have been that of a young woman, and its vivacity was only less than that which marked the speech of her son.

“Come and look at the orange lilies,” were her first words, after the greeting.  “They’ve never been so fine.”

“But notice Pompey first,” said Jane.  “He’ll be offended in a minute.”

A St. Bernard, who had already made such advances as his dignity permitted, stood close by Will, with eyes fixed upon him in grave and surprised reproach.  The dog’s name indicated a historical preference of Jane in her childhood; she had always championed Pompey against Caesar, following therein her brother’s guidance.

“Hallo, old Magnus!” cried the visitor, cordially repairing his omission.  “Come along with us and see the lilies.”

It was only when all the sights of the little garden had been visited, Mrs. Warburton forgetting her weakness as she drew Will hither and thither, that the business for which they had met came under discussion.  Discussion, indeed, it could hardly be called, for the mother and sister were quite content to listen whilst Will talked, and accept his view of things.  Small as their income was, they never thought of themselves as poor; with one maid-servant and the occasional help of a gardener, they had all the comfort they wished for, and were able to bestow of their superfluity in vegetables and flowers upon less fortunate acquaintances.  Until a year or two ago, Mrs. Warburton had led a life of ceaseless activity, indoors and out; such was the habit of her daughter, who enjoyed vigorous health, and cared little for sedentary pursuits and amusements.  Their property, land and cottages hard by, had of late given them a good deal of trouble, and the proposal to sell had more than once been considered, but Mr. Turnbull, most cautious of counsellors, urged delay.  Now, at length, the hoped-for opportunity of a good investment seemed to have presented itself; Will’s sanguine report of what he had learnt from Sherwood was gladly accepted.