known. Wynter _had_ made that mythical "pile," and had left his
daughter an heiress!

Not only an heiress, but a gift to Miss Jane Majendie, of somewhere
in Bloomsbury.

The professor's disturbed face grows calm again. It even occurs to
him that he has not eaten his breakfast. He so _often_ remembers
this, that it does not trouble him. To pore over his books (that are
overflowing every table and chair in the uncomfortable room) until
his eggs are India-rubber, and his rashers gutta-percha, is not a
fresh experience. But though this morning both eggs and rasher have
attained a high place in the leather department, he enters on his
sorry repast with a glad heart.

Sweet are the rebounds from jeopardy to joy! And he has so _much_ of
joy! Not only has he been able to shake from his shoulders that
awful incubus--and ever-present ward--but he can be sure that the
absent ward is so well-off with regard to this world's goods, that
he need never give her so much as a passing thought--dragged, _torn_
as that thought would be from his beloved studies.

The aunt, of course, will see about her fortune. _He_ has only a
perfunctory duty--to see that the fortune is not squandered. But he
is safe there. Maiden ladies _never_ squander! And the girl, being
only seventeen, can't possibly squander it herself for some time.

Perhaps he ought to call on her, however. Yes, of course, he must
call. It is the usual thing to call on one's ward. It will be a
terrible business no doubt. _All_ girls belong to the genus