won't. The hands may be kept, or they may be given the sack.
There's only Mr. Clifford left now, an' 'e ain't a Jocelyn."

"Does that matter?" and the reverend gentleman smiled with the
superior air of one far above all things of mere traditional
sentiment. "There is the girl--"

"Ah, yes! There's the girl!"

The speakers looked at one another.

"Her position," continued Mr. Medwin, meditatively tracing a
pattern on the ground with the end of his walking-stick, "seems to
me to be a little unfortunate. But I presume she is really the
daughter of our deceased friend?"

The man who was smoking took the pipe from his mouth and stared
for a moment.

"Daughter she may be," he said, "but born out o' wedlock anyhow--
an' she ain't got no right to Briar Farm unless th' owd man 'as
made 'er legal. An' if 'e's done that it don't alter the muddle,
'cept in the eyes o' the law which can twist ye any way--for she
was born bastard, an' there's never been a bastard Jocelyn on
Briar Farm all the hundreds o' years it's been standin'!"

Mr. Medwin again interested himself in a dust pattern.

"Ah, dear, dear!" he sighed--"Very sad, very sad! Our follies
always find us out, if not while we live, then when we die! I'm