"Clarkson is a great scamp, but I hear his wife is a very decent woman,
and naturally Bella was humbugged."

"Naturally, yes. But I hope it is not too late to get rid of such
tenants, or make them pay?"

"I would rather you undertook the task than I, except, of course, in the
way of business. Professionally, a lawyer has no tenderness for people
who can't pay."

"And in what condition is the rest of the land?"

"Much as it always was. The Indians are the only people who profit by it
at present; they hunt over it, and dry the fish they catch in the creek,
along the bank."

"Yet, if it were cleared, it ought not to be a bad position. Where is it
on the creek?"

Mr. Bellairs reached a map, and the two became absorbed in discussing
the probable advantages of turning out Clarkson and the Indians, and
clearing the farm on Beaver Creek.

Mr. Bellairs left his office earlier than usual that day, and found his
wife sitting alone in her little morning room. He took up a magazine
which lay on the table, and seated himself comfortably in an easy-chair
opposite to her.

"Where's Bella?" he asked presently.