A ROYAL TITLE
"The Slash" was the name given to a piece of partially cleared land
lying between the mill-pond and Sandy McLachlan's clearing. The timber
on it had been cut down and it had grown up in a wild luxuriance of
underbrush and berry bushes. The latter had from time to time been
cleared away in patches, and here and there between the fallen
tree-trunks were stretches of green grass, where the wild strawberries
grew. The Slash was the most delightful place in which to go roaming
at large and give oneself up to a buccaneer life. On schooldays,
though the Gordons passed through it morning and afternoon, there was
little opportunity to linger over its treasures. But the memory of its
cool, flowery glades, its sunny uplands, its wealth of berries or wild
grapes or hazel-nuts as the season of each came round, always beckoned
the children on holidays. The Gordon boys had long used it as a
playground. Here they could indulge in games of wild Indians and
pirates, setting fire to the brush-wood, cutting down trees, and
engaging in such other escapades as were not sufficiently genteel to be
carried on under their aunt's eye. So on holidays thither they always
repaired, either with the excuse of accompanying Charles Stuart to the
mill, or carrying a pail or a fishing-rod to give the proper coloring
to their departure.
But on this first summer holiday John and Charles Stuart found
themselves, upon setting out, hampered by a much worse encumbrance than
a berry-pail.
"Lizzie Gordon!" said her brother sternly, "you ain't comin'."
"I am so!" declared Elizabeth, secure in permission from the powers at
home. "Aunt said I could."
John looked at Charles Stuart, and Charles Stuart winked at John and
nodded towards the opposite edge of the pond. Elizabeth knew only too
well that those significant glances meant, "We'll run away from her and
hide as soon as we're into The Slash."
"No, you can't then," she cried triumphantly, just as though they had
spoken. "I can beat you at running, Charles Stuart MacAllister."
This was a fact Charles Stuart could not contradict. Elizabeth was the
wind itself for speed, and many a time he and John had tried in vain to
leave her behind. But her brother knew a manoeuvre that always brought
capitulation from the enemy. He turned away and walked for some paces
at Charles Stuart's side, then glanced back at Elizabeth resolutely
following.
"Aw, you're a nice one," he exclaimed, "followin' boys when they're
goin' swimmin'!"
Elizabeth stopped motionless in the pathway. One might bear slights
and indignities, even positive opposition, but the insinuation that one
was vulgar enough to go swimming at all, much more with boys, was an
insult no human being could stand. She turned away slowly, and, as the
two inexorable figures went on down the willow path into the ravine,
she dropped upon the earth and burst into despairing sobs. To be left
so cruelly was bad enough, but what hurt most was John's horrible
innuendo. It fairly scorched Elizabeth's soul.
She was lying prone upon the clover-starred grass, weeping bitterly,
when she was aroused by a rustle in the willows. A face was looking
through the green tangle.
"Aw, hurrah, Lizzie," Charles Stuart was saying, "come on. We're only
in fun. We ain't goin' swimmin' at all."
"I won't," wailed Elizabeth. "John doesn't want me; he never does, and
I'm going right back home."
Through her vanishing tears she had seen John approaching, and had
suddenly became conscious of the fact that if she returned home weeping
she would be questioned and matters might not be so comfortable for
John. That the young man recognized the danger himself was evident,
for he added his olive branch to Charles Stuart's. "Hurrah, Lizzie.
Don't be such a baby. Come along. We can't wait."
But Elizabeth was a woman to the very tips of her long, tapering
fingers, and finding herself in a position of power was not going to
capitulate at once. It was delightful to be coaxed, and by the boys,
too. So she merely sat up and, gazing back up the lane, sighed in a
hopeless way and said, "You don't want me, I know you don't, I might as
well go back."
"Come on, you silly," cried John, now thoroughly alarmed. "Come on
now. Mind you, we won't wait. Hurrah, Charles Stuart, and she can
stay if she likes."
They started down the ravine again; and, seeing that her air of grieved
dignity was liable to be lost in the willows, Elizabeth got to her feet
and went scrambling after them.
Down at the bottom of the hollow, where the little stream widened into
a lazy brown pond, lay Mr. MacAllister's saw-mill. It ran for only a
few months in the spring and early summer and was now closed. Only,
away down the valley where the road wound into the lumber yard, the
banging of boards told that someone was preparing to haul away a load.
None of The Dale children ever passed the mill without a visit, and of
course Charles Stuart always explored it all with a fine air of
proprietorship. So they scrambled over the silent place with its sweet
smell of running water and fresh sawdust. They beat a clamorous tattoo
upon the big circular saw, they went down to the lower regions and
explored the dark hole where the big water-wheel hung motionless, with
only the drip, drip of water from the flume above. They rode on the
little car that brought the logs up from the pond, and in as many ways
as possible risked life and limb as boys must ever do.
In all these hazardous ventures Elizabeth joined. She was desperately
frightened, but knew she must win her spurs at the outset or run the
awful risk of being left behind even yet. Her conduct proved
satisfactory, and by the time they reached the other side of the pond,
and had climbed the steep bank, clinging to the bracken and dog-wood,
friendly relations had been once more established. When the boys had
once got over the disgrace of feeling that a girl was tagging after
them, and took Elizabeth on her own merits, these three generally got
on very amicably. She was often a great nuisance, but on the whole
they got as much fun as trouble from her panics over snakes and
field-mice, and, when out of sight of The Dale, they voted her as good
a fellow as the rest.
So away they went over The Slash, tearing through underbrush, and
pausing occasionally to glance over the patches of grass for
strawberries. They soon decided that there were so many they could
soon fill their pails, and John suggested they sit down and eat the
lunch Charles Stuart had brought, for he was sure it must be
dinner-time by the look of the sun.
Mother MacAllister, with a motherly thought for the Gordons, had put up
a substantial repast of bread and pork and generous wedges of pie and a
pile of cookies big enough to make glad the heart of any boy. This,
supplemented by some thick slices of bread and butter which John had
begged from Sarah Emily, made a great feast. They grew very merry over
it, and when it was finished, up from the bottom of John's pail came a
book--the real reason for the berry-picking expedition. Just whether
it would be forbidden by their aunt or not, John and Elizabeth had not
run the risk of inquiring. It was a tremendously funny book, so funny
that the last time they had read a chapter--it was up in the hay-mow on
a rainy Saturday--Elizabeth had laughed so loud that they had almost
been discovered. John could go off into one of his silent fits of
laughter in the same room as Aunt Margaret and never be discovered, but
Elizabeth was prone to scream and dance, and when anything funny seized
her Sandy McLachlan's slash was only at a safe distance from home.
So, as the book was so very enjoyable, they had decided that it had
better be read in private. Elizabeth had some conscientious scruples,
which she had been bold enough to utter, but they were silenced by
John's quoting no less an authority than Mr. Coulson. The schoolmaster
had been overheard saying to Tom Teeter that he had spent all one
Saturday forenoon reading "Innocents Abroad." And he had told Annie
some of the funny stories in it, hence John had begged it from Malcolm,
who had borrowed it from a High School boy in Cheemaun.
So the three sat them down in a shady nook, against a mossy log, and
listened with delight while John read. They took turns at reading
aloud; Charles Stuart was the best reader, and Elizabeth the worst.
She either read very slowly and stumbled over all the long words, or
else so fast one could not follow her. But Charles Stuart was a
wonderful reader, one of the best in school. Indeed, Mr. Coulson
declared that Charles Stuart would make a greater public speaker than
Tom Teeter some day, if he set his mind to oratory.
But to-day it was John's turn to read, and when the extracts were not
too funny he progressed fairly well, toiling along in a quiet monotone.
When the story became very laughable, however, he proved a great trial
to his listeners. Before he could utter the joke, his voice would fail
and he would collapse into helpless laughter. When importuned by his
audience to speak out and let them know what the fun was, he would make
agonized attempts to utter the words, failing again and again, until
Charles Stuart would snatch the book from him. Sometimes the sight of
John struggling to utter in anguishing whispers the thing that was
rendering him helpless was far funnier than Mark Twain himself, and
Elizabeth and Charles Stuart would roll over on the grass in shrieks of
laughter long before they heard what the joke was about.
But such irresponsible conduct could not continue, and when the cool
part of the day had been consumed in the shade, they had to turn out in
the blazing noon-day sun to hunt for strawberries. The three
adventurers would have preferred the shade and Mark Twain, or else a
dash through the woods, but they were true Canadians, born with that
innate idea that he who does not work should not eat. So to work they
went of their own free will. The strawberries were plentiful, and soon
the tin cups, heaped with their luscious loads, were being carried to
the pails beneath the bass-wood bushes. Elizabeth never grew weary
picking strawberries. This was a task infinitely removed from being
shut into a hot kitchen with a dish-towel, while the boys played in the
barnyard. The glory of the day, the sense of freedom from restraint,
the beauty of the rosy clusters, hiding shyly beneath their pretty
leaves, all combined to make work seem play. She picked so furiously
that she was a spur to even Charles Stuart, accustomed as he was to
hard work at his farm-home, and lest they be beaten by a girl the boys
toiled strenuously.
By the time the afternoon sun had begun to wane, the big pails were
filled and shaken down and filled again, the pickers had eaten almost
as much more, and surfeited, hot, and thirsty they found themselves on
the edge of the slash that bordered the woods.
Down the leafy pathway which led towards the school they could see
Sandy McLachlan's log house standing in its little clearing.
"Hurrah over and ask old Sandy for a drink," cried Charles Stuart.
"I'm chokin'."
Elizabeth followed them into the woods, full of delight. It would be
such fun to visit Eppie in the afternoon, just as if they were grown-up
ladies, and she had come to stay to tea.
There was a strange, deserted air about the little place. There was
nobody in the tiny garden, where Eppie's sunflowers and sweet peas
stood blazing in the sunshine. There was even no sign of life about
the little log house. They went up the hard beaten path to the door.
It was open, and they peeped in. Eppie's pink sunbonnet was lying on a
chair and the crumbs of the late dinner were still scattered over the
bare pine table.
"They must be down at the barn," said Charles Stuart. "I'm goin' to
have a drink, anyhow."
A rusty tin dipper hung over the well, and they helped themselves. The
sound of the pump brought a little figure round the corner of the old
log barn.
At the sight of Elizabeth, Eppie came running up the path. She was
barefooted, as Eppie always was except on Sundays, and wore a coarse,
gray wincey dress and a big apron. Poor Eppie's clothes were all much
too large for her, for the little girl had no woman's deft hand to
dress her. She shyly slipped past the boys and took hold of
Elizabeth's hand. Her big, pathetic eyes shone with joy. "Oh, Lizzie,
I'll be that glad to see you," she whispered in her old-fashioned way.
Perhaps it was her long dress, but somehow Elizabeth always had the
impression that poor Eppie had always been old and grown-up. "Come
away down to the barn and see grandaddy," she added, including the
boys. "There's two men down there an' they're goin' to take
grandaddy's house away from him, only the master says he won't let
them."
Here was exciting news. The boys ran on ahead, and Elizabeth and Eppie
quickly followed, the former plying her hostess with wondering
questions.
A smart horse and a shiny top-buggy were standing in the barnyard. In
the vehicle two men were seated, and beside them stood old Sandy and
Mr. Coulson. The schoolmaster was using the first two or three days of
his holidays in which to bid farewell to his Forest Glen friends.
Elizabeth had heard him say he would do so, yesterday in school, and as
she caught sight of him she could not help thinking he must have said
good-by to hundreds and hundreds of people that day, since he had
started so early. The speculation passed dimly through her mind as to
how many of them he had kissed.
But her chief feeling was one of joy at the sight of him, and keeping
hold of Eppie's hand she went round to the side of the horse where he
stood. Elizabeth was shy and frightened in the presence of strangers,
unless some unusual encouragement brought her older self to the fore,
when she could converse with the ease of an accomplished society woman.
But the sight of these smart-looking strangers, evidently from town,
filled her with discomfort, and she shyly drew up behind Mr. Coulson.
"But, Mr. Oliver," he was saying, "there must surely be some justice in
his claim. Why, Mr. McLachlan has lived here for twenty years, and
changed the place from dense woods to what you see now."
The elder man in the buggy, a stout, good-natured looking fellow,
lazily blew a whiff of smoke from his cigar and smiled in a superior
way. "Mr. Huntley," he said, turning to the young man at his side,
"when Mr. Coulson enters your office, I'm afraid you're going to have
trouble drilling him into the mysteries of meum and tuum as interpreted
by the law."
"Yes, as interpreted by the law," repeated Mr. Coulson rather hotly.
"The law sometimes speaks in a foreign language. If I thought my study
of it was going to warp my ideas of right and wrong I'd go back home
and pitch hay for the rest of my life."
The young man in the carriage looked at him closely. He was a handsome
young fellow, about Mr. Coulson's own age, with a clever, clean-cut
face. "There's something in your contention, John," he said, "but I'm
acting for my client remember, and he has his ideas of right and wrong,
too. He's paying for the place."
The young teacher's face fell, and old Sandy McLachlan, who had been
watching him with eyes pitifully anxious, came a step nearer.
"They will not be turning me off?" he asked, half-fearfully,
half-defiantly. "I would be working on this place for twenty years.
Mr. Jarvis would be telling me it will be mine, as long as I live. And
what will become of me and my little Eppie?"
"Well, well, Mr. McLachlan," said the jolly-looking man, not losing a
whit of his jollity at the sight of the old man's distress. "Well,
well, we won't discuss the matter any further to-day. You won't be
disturbed until the fall anyway. And Mr. Huntley here will see that
justice is done, whatever happens. He's one of the cleverest young
lawyers in Cheemaun, you know."
"Hech!" interrupted old Sandy, his eyes blazing. "Yes, it is that I
will be fearing. The Lord peety the man that will be falling into the
hands of a clever lawyer!"
The comfortable-looking man seemed to take this as a grand joke. He
laughed heartily and dug his elbow into the side of his young
companion. "Hear that, Blake? Ha, ha! you lawyers deserve all you
get. Ha! ha! that's good!"
The young man at his side did not reply to the raillery. He was
looking past Mr. Coulson at the group of four children, standing
open-mouthed, gazing at the men, and breathlessly listening to every
word. He was particularly struck with the smallest one, a little girl
in a torn, berry-stained blue pinafore and a sunbonnet of the same
material. Her two small brown hands held in a tight grasp the hand of
old Sandy's granddaughter, her cheeks were crimson, and her big eyes
were blazing with an expression of mingled wrath and fear.
"Whose youngsters?" he asked, nodding towards them. "They don't all
belong here, do they?" Mr. Coulson turned, and for the first time
noticed the berry-pickers. "Hello! Charles Stuart and John Gordon and
Lizzie herself!" he cried. "Been picking berries, eh?"
"Who's the little brown thing with all the eyes and hair?" asked Mr.
Huntley.
Mr. Coulson took Elizabeth's hand and drew her up to the side of the
buggy. "This gentleman wants to know your name, Lizzie," he said.
"It's 'Lizbeth Jarvis Gordon," said that young lady with great dignity.
She was not the least bit shy or frightened now. Had she liked this
Mr. Huntley she might have been, but she was filled with a longing to
stand up boldly and denounce him as a cruel monster who was trying to
turn Eppie and her grandfather out of Forest Glen. She looked straight
into his face with big, accusing eyes.
"Jarvis!" said the young man in surprise. "That's a familiar name.
Where did you get it, Miss 'Lizbeth Jarvis Gordon?"
Elizabeth gave that haughty turn to her long neck, which the conduct of
Charles Stuart and John so often called forth. She looked away
straight over the fence-tops. It might be rude, it certainly was not
genteel, but she positively refused to converse with a scoundrel who
would ill-use Eppie.
Mr. Coulson looked down at her averted face and tightly closed lips,
and an amused look flitted over his countenance. He understood this
peculiar little Lizzie fairly well, and lately had been feeling very
sympathetic towards her, for special reasons of his own.
"She's a namesake of Mrs. Jarvis," he explained. "But you're not in
favor. There's a deep friendship here, you understand." He nodded
significantly towards Eppie, standing back pale and tearful.
"Oh, I see. And I'm the ogre in the fairy-tale." The young man
laughed. "Well, well, Queen Elizabeth, I hope we'll meet again under
more friendly auspices. In the meantime, here's something to remember
me by." He dived into his pocket, and the two boys behind Elizabeth
gave a gasp of astonishment. He was holding towards her a shining
silver American dollar!
And then, for the first time in his life, John Gordon felt a thrill of
pride in Lizzie. For the little girl stepped hastily back, her hands
clasped tightly behind her. Her face grew crimson with shame and
anger. Why, no one was ever given money to except the beggars and
crossing-sweepers she had read about in the Sunday-school library
books! And she--a Gordon--to be offered a coin, as if she were a
charity orphan, and by such a horrid, horrid, bad man as this! She
flashed him one look of deeply offended dignity, and, catching hold of
John's coat, slipped behind him.
The man named Oliver burst again into loud laughter, and slapped his
companion on the back.
"Ha! ha! Blake! Turned down that time, all right. Queen Elizabeth's
a mighty haughty young lady!"
The young man pretended to laugh, but he really looked annoyed, as he
crushed his scorned money back into his pocket, and took up the reins.
He did not glance again at the haughty Queen Elizabeth, but nodded
curtly to old Sandy. "Good-by, Mr. McLachlan. Don't forget to drop
into my office when you're in town. Good-by, Coulson. See you Monday,
I suppose."
And, giving his horse a sharp cut with the whip, he went whizzing off
down the lane.
"Lizzie Gordon," said Mr. Coulson, catching hold of her sunbonnet and
giving her a little shake, "you gave that young man a severer rebuke
than I managed in half-an-hour's hard talk. Now, cheer up, Sandy.
Things aren't hopeless yet."
"Och, and it iss not hopeless I will be," said the old man, with a
stately air. His face lit up, and his eyes took on a far-away look.
"I haf never seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed begging bread.
That will be the word of God, Mr. Coulson, and not even the lawyers can
be breaking that. I will not be righteous, oh, no! The Lord forbid
that I say such a word, for it is the evil tongue I will be hafing that
will be uttering ungodly words when the dogs will be coming into the
house o' the Lord--and a curse on them for pollutin' the holy place!
But, indeed an' indeed, it is a miserable sinner I will be. But my
father would be a great man of prayer, and versed in the Scriptures,
and for his sake the Almighty will not be letting the wee thing come to
want. Oh, no, indeed."
There was a sublime faith in the old man's heart that rose above
worldly disaster. His little granddaughter crept up to him and laid
her little brown hand on his coarse shirt-sleeve.
"The place will be ours, anyway; won't it, grandaddy?" she whispered
tremulously. "They couldn't be turning us out, could they?"
As he looked down at her, the old man's mood changed. His fighting
blood was rising.
"Eh, them lawyers!" he cried fiercely. "I will be begging your pardon,
Mr. Coulson," he added apologetically. "But it will be a great peety
that a fine man like yourself would be hafing anything to do with the
tribe. But if they had jist been hafing the Gaelic, I would haf been
giving it to them. Och, but it will be a peety about the English. It
would be but a poor spoke, indeed."
"Well, Sandy, let us hope that there are some honest lawyers. I'm
going into Mr. Huntley's office on Monday, and I'll do my best for you.
Don't worry."
When the farewells had been said, and Elizabeth had comforted Eppie in
parting, the berry-pickers found to their joy that Mr. Coulson was to
accompany them for a short distance, on his way to Wully Johnstone's.
They had many eager questions to ask him. What were those men doing?
the boys demanded. How dared they try to turn old Sandy away? What
had they to do with his place, anyway? Mr. Coulson explained that they
could not understand it all, for law was a very complex thing indeed.
But all this property of Sandy's, as well as Tom Teeter's land, and
everything between here and The Dale, had once belonged to Mr. Jarvis,
and now belonged to the lady for whom Lizzie was called. Mrs. Jarvis
had come to Cheemaun this summer and had asked her lawyer to sell all
this property. And now it would appear that old Sandy's farm was for
sale, too. For Sandy had no deed of his property; in fact, had merely
worked it for Mr. Jarvis, who, Sandy declared, had told him that all
south of the Birch Creek belonged to him. But it wasn't in writing,
and lawyers did not believe anything they didn't see.
The children listened dismayed, and each proffered his own opinion as
to the line of conduct old Sandy should pursue. Charles Stuart would
barricade the gates and put up a palisade round the whole farm, the way
they did in the old Indian days. Yes, and he would buy a gun and shoot
dead anyone who set foot on his property. John heartily agreed with
the plan, introducing modifications. A palisade would require all the
soldiers in the County of Simcoe to man it. Instead, he would lay
mines and torpedoes and deadly man-traps up the lane and all through
the bush, so that no approach could be made to the house.
The two walked on ahead, consumed with excitement over the warlike
plans, and Elizabeth and Mr. Coulson fell behind. He saw the distress
in the little girl's face, and made light of the situation. Eppie
would be all right, she need not worry. No one would touch her, not
even Mr. Huntley, who was after all not such a bad young man. And, to
change the subject to something brighter, he said:
"It's just fine luck you came along this way. I'm going away
to-morrow, and I thought I shouldn't see you again."
"But I was up when you were at our place this morning," said Elizabeth,
and no sooner were the words out than she could have bitten off her
tongue for its indiscretion. She did not need the startled, dismayed
look in the young man's eyes, or his crimsoning face, to tell her she
had made a shocking mistake, for the older inner self rose up in severe
accusation.
"Oh, Mr. Coulson!" she stopped in the pathway and regarded him with
deep contrition. "Oh, I didn't mean that! I--I mean I couldn't help
seeing. I was watching for fear John would run away on me, and go
fishing. And nobody else saw--and Annie doesn't even know. And you
know I wouldn't ever, ever tell, don't you?"
She looked up at him with such desperate anxiety that he could not but
have confidence in her. His own face cleared.
"You're sure nobody else saw?" he whispered.
"Oh, yes, certain," breathed Elizabeth. "I--I--" she stopped, overcome
by the tears of shame that were filling her eyes.
Her teacher took her hand. He could never bear to see a little girl in
distress. "There now," he said. "It's all right, Lizzie. But you
know, little girl, this is something I can't explain to you, because
you are too little to understand. You will know all about it some day.
But listen." He stopped and looked at her closely. "I know we can
trust you, little Lizzie," he said.
Elizabeth looked up at him through her tears. It was entirely the wise
old Elizabeth that was there.
"Yes," she said solemnly, "I wouldn't tell."
He slipped his little note-book from his pocket and scribbled in it.
It might be just as well to warn Annie. The two boys had disappeared
round a curve in the leafy pathway ahead. He folded the note carefully
and handed it to her. "You won't lose it, Lizzie?" he asked. "And
you'll give it to Annie when there's no one around?"
"Yes! yes!" cried Elizabeth. She slipped it into the pocket of her
blue pinafore, and smiled up at him. She felt wonderfully grown-up and
important. Mr. Coulson was putting confidence in her. They had a
secret between them, he and she. She said good-by to him at the place
where the path to Wully Johnstone's branched off, and away she ran
after the boys, dancing with joy.
When the weary and hungry berry-pickers reached home they had an
exciting tale to tell and many questions to ask. Tom Teeter came over
after tea to give his opinion upon poor old Sandy's case. Jake Martin
across from him was trying to buy Sandy's land, folk said, and if
Martin did such a thing, then he, Tom Teeter, considered him a more
penurious and niggardly miser, that would skin his neighbor's
grasshoppers for their hide and tallow, than he had already proven
himself to be.
Mr. MacAllister had dropped in, too, as he very often did of an
evening, and suspended his work to discuss the question of the moment.
Mr. MacAllister's double business of farmer and mill-owner, while not
at all taxing his physique, was too much for his mental powers, and he
was frequently compelled to have recourse to Mr. Gordon for help. Mr.
MacAllister had a peculiar method of calculating the selling price of
lumber, which he very appropriately termed "the long way of figgerin'."
It was so long that it frequently covered boards and shingles, and even
the walls of the mill, before the final number of dollars and cents
appeared, the result being that the lumber sawn was all out of
proportion to the number of figures required to compute its value.
So Mr. Gordon was frequently appealed to, and with a few magic strokes
he would reduce the Long Way to its proper size. On this evening the
problem was put aside for the discussion of poor Sandy's affairs. Mr.
Martin was known as a hard man throughout the countryside, and Mr.
MacAllister gave it as his opinion that if Sandy had Jake Martin and
the lawyers after him, he might as well get out of the country. There
was no hope for a man when the law got him. For the law was a scheme
used by smart folks in town to cheat people out of their earnings.
Mr. Gordon said, "Well, well, well," and, "Indeed and indeed," and
hoped things would not be quite so bad. But his sister looked worried
in her stately, reserved fashion. To be sure, this business might
bring Mrs. Jarvis to her door, who could tell, especially as Mr. Oliver
and Mr. Huntley had both seen Elizabeth. But what an Elizabeth to be
described to that lady! On the whole, she was worried, and when the
visitors were gone she followed her brother into his study and asked to
see the paper signed by the late Mr. Jarvis, stating that they had
really a lawful claim upon The Dale. And she was not surprised, though
much dismayed, to find that her unbusinesslike brother had no such
document in his possession.