is not worth very much—­a great deal of it is wild downland.  But you would have the place, when I died, and about twelve hundred a year.  It would be understood that you should live here a certain amount—­I don’t believe in non-resident landlords.  But I do not mean to tie you down to live here altogether.  It is only my wish that you should do something for your tenants and neighbours.  If you stayed on at Cambridge you could come here in vacations.  But my hope would be that you might marry.  It is a house for a family.  If you do not care to live here, I would rather it were sold.  While I live, I hope you will be content to spend some time here, and make acquaintance with our neighbours, by which I mean the village people.  I shall tell Cousin Frank my intentions, and that will probably suffice to make it known.  I have a very great love for the place, and as far as I can see, you will be likely to have the same.

“You need not feel overburdened with gratitude.  You are my only near relation; and indeed I may say that if I were to die before I have signed my will, you would inherit all my fortune as next-of-kin.  So you will see that instead of enriching you, I am to a great extent disinheriting you!  Just tell me simply if you acquiesce.  I want no pledges, nor do I want to bind you in any way.  I will not say more, except that it has been a very deep delight to me to find a son in my old age.  I had always hoped it would turn out so; and in my experience, God is very careful to give us our desires, just or unjust, great or small.—­Your loving Aunt,

“Anne graves.”

Howard was stupefied for a moment by this communication, but he was more affected by the love and confidence it showed than by the prospect of wealth—­wealth was not a thing he had ever expected, or indeed thought much about; but it was a home that he had found.  The great lack of his life had been a local attachment, a place where he had reason to live.  Cambridge with all its joys had never been quite that.  A curious sense of emotion at the thought that the sweet place, the beautiful old house, was to be his own, came over him; and another far-off dream darted into his mind as well, which he did not dare to shape.  He got up and wrote a short note.

“My dear aunt,—­Your letter fills me with astonishment.  I can only say that I accept in love and gratitude what you offer me.  The feeling that I have found a home and a mother, so suddenly and so unexpectedly, fills me with joy and happiness.  I think with sadness of all the good years I have missed, by a sort of stupid perversity; but I won’t regard that now.  I will only thank you once more with all my heart for the proof of affection which your letter gives me.—­Your grateful and affectionate nephew,

“Howard Kennedy.”

The old house had a welcoming air as he passed through it that morning; it seemed to hold him in its patient embrace, to ask for love.  He spent the morning with Jack, but in a curiously distracted mood.