And then there arose another question.  Would it not be his duty to marry,—–­and, if so, whom?  He had been distinctly told that Mary Morton had given her heart to some one, and he certainly was not the man to ask for the hand of a girl who had not a heart to give.  And yet thought that it would be impossible that he should marry any other person.  He spent hours in walking about the grounds, looking at the garden and belongings which would so probably be his own within a week, and thinking whether it would be possible that he should bring a mistress to preside over them.  Before he reached home he had made up his mind that only one mistress would be possible, and that she was beyond his reach.

On the Tuesday he received a scrawl from Mrs. Hopkins with a letter from the lawyer—­addressed to her.  The lawyer wrote to say that he would be down on Wednesday evening, would attend the funeral, and read his client’s will after they had performed the ceremony.  He went on to add that in obedience to Mrs. Morton’s directions he had invited Mr. Peter Morton to be present on the occasion.  On the Wednesday Reginald again went over, but left before the arrival of the two gentlemen.  On the Thursday he was there early, and of course took upon himself the duty of chief mourner.  Peter Morton was there and showed, in a bewildered way, that he had been summoned rather to the opening of the will than to the funeral of a man he had never seen.

Then the will was read.  There were only two names mentioned in it.  John Morton left 5,000 pounds and his watch and chain and rings to Arabella Trefoil, and everything else of which he was possessed to his cousin Reginald Morton.

“Upon my word I don’t know why they sent for me,” said the other cousin, Peter.

“Mrs. Morton seemed to think that you would like to pay a tribute of respect,” said the lawyer.  Peter looked at him and went upstairs and packed his portmanteau.  The lawyer handed over the keys to the new squire, and then everything was done.

CHAPTER XI

The New Minister

“Poor old Paragon!” exclaimed Archibald Currie, as he stood with his back to the fire among his colleagues at the Foreign Office on the day after John Morton’s death.

“Poor young Paragon! that’s the pity of it,” said Mounser Green.  “I don’t suppose he was turned thirty, and he was a useful man,—­a very useful man.  That’s the worst of it.  He was just one of those men that the country can’t afford to lose, and whom it is so very hard to replace.”  Mounser Green was always eloquent as to the needs of the public service, and did really in his heart of hearts care about his office.  “Who is to go to Patagonia, I’m sure I don’t know.  Platitude was asking me about it, and I told him that I couldn’t name a man.”

“Old Platitude always thinks that the world is coming to an end,” said Currie.  “There are as good fish in the sea as ever were caught”