nests, but I daren't go very near for the mother bird is so strong. Father used to say that when they have their baby birds to look after, they are as fierce as eagles."
"Your father used to walk with you here, Juliet?" Aynesworth asked.
"Always till the last few months when he got weaker and weaker," she answered. "Since then I come every day alone."
"Don't you find it lonely?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"At first," she answered, "not now. It makes me unhappy. Would you like to go down on the beach and look for shells? I can find you some very pretty ones."
They clambered down and wandered hand in hand by the seashore. She told him quaint little stories of the smugglers, of wrecks, and the legends of the fisher people. Coming back along the sands, she clung to his arm and grew more silent. Her eyes sought his every now and then, wistfully.
Presently she pointed out a tiny whitewashed cottage standing by itself on a piece of waste ground."That is where I live now, at least for a day or two," she said. "They cannot keep me any longer. When are you going away?"
"Very soon, I am afraid, little girl," he answered. "I will come and see you, though, before I go."
"You promise," she said solemnly.
"I promise," Aynesworth repeated.
Then she held up her face, a little timidly, and he kissed her. Afterwards, he watched her turn with slow, reluctant footsteps to the unpromising abode which she had pointed out. Aynesworth made his way to the inn, cursing his impecuniosity and Wingrave's brutal indifference.
He found the latter busy writing letters.
"Doing your work, Aynesworth?" he remarked coldly. "Be so good as to write to Christie's for me, and ask them to send down a valuer to go through the pictures."
"You are really going to sell!" Aynesworth exclaimed.
"Most certainly," Wingrave answered. "Heirlooms and family pictures are only so much rubbish to me. I am the last of my line, and I doubt whether even my lawyer could discover a next of kin for my personal property. Sell! Of course I'm going to sell! What use is all this hoarded rubbish to me? I am going to turn it into gold!"
"And what use is gold?" Aynesworth asked curiously. "You have plenty!"
"Not enough for my purpose," Wingrave declared. "We are going to America to make more."
"It's vandalism!" Aynesworth said, "rank vandalism! The place as it is is a picture! The furniture and the house have grown old together. Why, you might marry!"
Wingrave scowled at the younger man across the room.
"You are a fool, Aynesworth," he said shortly. "Take down these letters."
After dinner, Wingrave went out alone. Aynesworth followed him about an hour later, when his work was done, and made his way towards the Vicarage. It was barely nine o'clock, but the little house seemed already to be in darkness. He rang 

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