Augusta bit her lip, and the tears came into her eyes. She was only a
woman, and had a woman's little weakness; and, though she had never
appeared in a low dress in her life, she knew that her neck was one of
her greatest beauties, and was proud of it. It was hard to think that she
would be marked all her life with this ridiculous will--that is, if she
escaped--and, what was more, for the benefit of a young man who had no
claim upon her at all.

That was what she said to herself; but as she said it, something in her
told her that it was not true. Something told her that this young Mr.
Eustace Meeson _had_ a claim upon her--the highest claim that a man could
have upon a woman, for the truth must out--she loved him. It seemed to
have come home to her quite clearly here in this dreadful desolate place,
here in the very shadow of an awful death, that she did love him, truly
and deeply. And that being so, she would not have been what she was--a
gentle-natured, devoted woman--had she not at heart rejoiced at this
opportunity of self-sacrifice, even though that self-sacrifice was of the
hardest sort, seeing that it involved what all women hate--the endurance
of a ridiculous position. For love can do all things: it can even make
its votaries brave ridicule.

"Go on," she said sharply, "and let us get it over as soon as possible."

"Very well, Miss. What is it to be, old gentleman? Cut it short, you
know."

"'_I leave all my property to Eustace H. Meeson_,' that's as short as I
can get it; and, if properly witnessed, I think that it will cover
everything," said Mr. Meeson, with a feeble air of triumph. "Anyhow, I
never heard of a will that is to carry about two millions being got into