"Hardly fair--as it seems to me. Considering that my good uncle obliged
me to give up my own prospects for it."

She stood, her hands clasped in sympathy, her face full of earnest
sadness. "How unkind! Why, it would be cruel!"

"Well, I confess I felt it to be so at the first blow. But, standing at
the outside window yonder to pull myself together, a ray or two of light
crept in, showing me that it may be for the best after all. 'Whatever
_is_, is right,' you know."

"Yes," she slowly said--"if you can think so. But, Mr. Carradyne, should
you not have anything at all?--anything to live upon after Captain
Monk's death?"

"Just a trifle, I calculate, as the Americans say--and it is calculating
I have been--that I need not altogether starve. Would you like to know
how much it will be?"

"Oh, please don't laugh at me!"--for it suddenly struck the girl that he
was laughing, perhaps in reproof, and that she had spoken too freely. "I
ought not to have asked that; I was not thinking--I was too sorry to
think."

"But I may as well tell you, if you don't mind. I have a very pretty
little place, which you have seen and heard of, called by that
delectable title Peacock's Range--"

"Is Peacock's Range yours?" she interrupted, in surprise. "I thought it