"Sanguine!" said Harry. "How?" 

 "He expects Lord Banff to make up his mind this week." 

 "Well?" 

 "It has been 'this week' all this year!" 

 Harry looked very sad. 

 "Then you don't think much of my chances of that—three hundred? I might have seen you didn't at the time." 

 "No, my boy, I do not. Of his will to help you there can be no question; his ability is another matter; and we must not rely on him." 

 "But you say he has helped you so much?" 

 "In a different way." 

 "Well," said Harry after a pause, "in spite of what you say, he seems quite sure himself that everything will be settled to-morrow. He has an appointment with Lord Banff in the afternoon. He wants to see me afterwards, and has asked me to go down and spend the evening with them at Richmond." 

 Mrs. Ringrose lay conspicuously silent. 

 "Who are 'they,' mother?" continued her son. "Somehow or other he is a man you never associate with a family, he's so complete in himself. Is he married?" 

 "His wife is dead." 

 "Then there are children?" 

 "One daughter, I believe." 

 "Don't you know her?" 

 "No; and I don't want to!" cried Mrs. Ringrose. So broke the small storm which had been brewing in her grave face and altered voice. 

 "Why not, mother?" 

 "She has never been near me! Here I have been nearly two months, and she has never called. I shall refuse to see her when she does. The father can come, but we are beneath the daughter. We are in trouble, you see! I only hope you'll have very little to say to her." 

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