“And they are to be here next week.  What day next week, Mrs. Hopkins?” Mrs. Hopkins didn’t know on what day she was to expect the visitors, nor how long they intended to stay.  Mr. John Morton had said in his letter that he would send his own man down two days before his arrival, and that was nearly all that he had said.

Then Morton started on his return walk to Dillsborough, again taking the path across the bridge.  “Ah!” he said to himself with a shudder as he crossed the stile, thinking of his own softened feelings as he had held out his hand to help Mary Masters, and then of his revulsion of feeling when she declared her purpose of walking home with Mr. Twentyman.  And he struck the rail of the bridge with his stick as though he were angry with the place altogether.  And he thought to himself that he would never come there any more, that he hated the place, and that he would never cross that bridge again.

Then his mind reverted to the tidings he had heard from Mrs. Hopkins.  What ought he to do when his cousin arrived?  Though there had been a long lawsuit, there had been no actual declared quarrel between him and the heir.  He had, indeed, never seen the heir for the last twenty years, nor had they ever interchanged letters.  There had been no communication whatever between them, and therefore there could hardly be a quarrel.  He disliked his cousin; nay, almost hated him; he was quite aware of that.  And he was sure also that he hated that Honourable old woman worse than any one else in the world, and that he always would do so.  He knew that the Honourable old woman had attempted to drive his own mother from Bragton, and of course he hated her.  But that was no reason why he should not call on his cousin.  He was anxious to do what was right.  He was specially anxious that blame should not be attributed to him.  What he would like best would be that he might call, might find nobody at home,—­and that then John Morton should not return the courtesy.  He did not want to go to Bragton as a guest; he did not wish to be in the wrong himself; but he was by no means equally anxious that his cousin should keep himself free from reproach.

The bridge path came out on the Dillsborough road just two miles from the town, and Morton, as he got over the last stile, saw Lawrence Twentyman coming towards him on the road.  The man, no doubt, had gone all the way into Dillsborough with the girls, and was now returning home.  The parish of Bragton lies to the left of the high road as you go into the town from Rufford and the direction of London, whereas Chowton Farm, the property of Mr. Twentyman, is on the right of the road, but in the large parish of St. John’s, Dillsborough.  Dillsborough Wood lies at the back of Larry Twentyman’s land, and joining on to Larry’s land and also to the wood is the patch of ground owned by “that scoundrel Goarly”.  Chowton Farm gate opens on to the high road, so that Larry was now on his direct