‘And you don’t know what it’s all about?’ said Uncle Barty.

’I can’t quite say that.  I suppose I do know pretty well.  At any rate, I know enough to think that you ought to come.  But I must not say what it is.’

‘Will it do me or anybody else any good?’

‘It can’t do you any harm.  She won’t eat you.’

’But she can abuse me like a pickpocket, and I should return it, and then there would be a scolding match.  I always have kept out of her way, and I think I had better do so still.’

Nevertheless Brooke prevailed, or rather the feeling of curiosity which was naturally engendered prevailed.  For very, very many years Barty Burgess had never entered or left his own house of business without seeing the door of that in which Miss Stanbury lived, and he had never seen that door without a feeling of detestation for the owner of it.  It would, perhaps, have been a more rational feeling on his part had he confined his hatred to the memory of his brother, by whose will Miss Stanbury had been enriched, and he had been, as he thought, impoverished.  But there had been a contest, and litigation, and disputes, and contradictions, and a long course of those incidents in life which lead to rancour and ill blood, after the death of the former Brooke Burgess; and, as the result of all this, Miss Stanbury held the property and Barty Burgess held his hatred.  He had never been ashamed of it, and had spoken his mind out to all who would hear him.  And, to give Miss Stanbury her due, it must be admitted that she had hardly been behind him in the warmth of her expression, of which old Barty was well aware.  He hated, and knew that he was hated in return.  And he knew, or thought that he knew, that his enemy was not a woman to relent because old age and weakness and the fear of death were coming on her.  His enemy, with all her faults, was no coward.  It could not be that now at the eleventh hour she should desire to reconcile him by any act of tardy justice, nor did he wish to be reconciled at this, the eleventh hour.  His hatred was a pleasant excitement to him.  His abuse of Miss Stanbury was a chosen recreation.  His unuttered daily curse, as he looked over to her door, was a relief to him.  Nevertheless he would go.  As Brooke had said, no harm could come of his going.  He would go, and at least listen to her proposition.

About seven in the evening his knock was heard at the door.  Miss Stanbury was sitting in the small upstairs parlour, dressed in her second best gown, and was prepared with considerable stiffness and state for the occasion.  Dorothy was with her, but was desired in a quick voice to hurry away the moment the knock was heard, as though old Barty would have jumped from the hall door into the room at a bound.  Dorothy collected herself with a little start, and went without a word.  She had heard much of Barty Burgess, but had never spoken to him, and was subject to a feeling of great awe when she would remember that