"I don't know," he answered dejectedly. "It went against the grain, so
what is the use of talking about it? I think my old uncle Austin told
me it wasn't to be parted with--no, perhaps it was Jeekie. Bother the
Yellow God! it is always cropping up."

"Yes," replied Barbara, "the Yellow God is always cropping up,
especially in this neighbourhood."

They walked on a while in silence, till suddenly Barbara sat down upon a
bole of felled oak and began to cry.

"What is the matter with you?" asked Alan.

"I don't know," she answered. "Everything goes wrong. I live in a kind
of gilded hell. I don't like my uncle and I loath the men he brings
about the place. I have no friends, I scarcely know a woman intimately,
I have troubles I can't tell you and--I am wretched. You are the only
creature I have left to talk to, and I suppose that after this row you
must go away too to make your living."

Alan looked at her there weeping on the log and his heart swelled within
him, for he had loved this girl for years.

"Barbara," he gasped, "please don't cry, it upsets me. You know you are
a great heiress----"

"That remains to be proved," she answered. "But anyway, what has it to
do with the case?"

"It has everything to do with it, at least so far as I am concerned. If