Her aunt spoke to her somewhat more graciously than on the preceding evening, and accepted her apology for being late.

Just as she was about to start Lady Ball took her apart and spoke one word to her.

“No one can tell you better what you ought to do than your cousin John; but pray remember that he is far too generous to say a word for himself.”

Margaret made no answer, and then she and her cousin started on foot across the grounds to the station. The distance was nearly a mile, and during the walk no word was said between them about the money. They got into the train that was to take them up to London, and sat opposite to each other. It happened that there was no passenger in either of the seats next to him or her, so that there was ample opportunity for them to hold a private conversation; but Mr Ball said nothing to her, and she, not knowing how to begin, said nothing to him. In this way they reached the London station at Waterloo Bridge, and then he asked her what she proposed to do next.

“Shall we go to Mr Slow’s at once?” she asked.

To this he assented, and at her proposition they agreed to walk to the lawyer’s chambers. These were on the north side of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, near the Turnstile, and Mr Ball remarked that the distance was again not much above a mile. So they crossed the Strand together, and made their way by narrow streets into Drury Lane, and then under a certain archway into Lincoln’s Inn Fields. To Miss Mackenzie, who felt that something ought to be said, the distance and time occupied seemed to be very short.

“Why, this is Lincoln’s Inn Fields!” she exclaimed, as she came out upon the west side.

“Yes; this is Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and Mr Slow’s chambers are over there.”

She knew very well where Mr Slow’s chambers were situated, but she paused on the pavement, not wishing to go thither quite at once.

“John,” she said, “I thought that perhaps we might have talked over all this before we saw Mr Slow.”

“Talked over all what?”

“About the money that I want to give to my brother’s family. Did not my aunt tell you of it?”

“Yes; she told me that you and she had differed.”

“And she told you what about?”

“Yes,” said he, slowly; “she told me what about.”

“And what ought I to do, John?”

As she asked the question she caught hold of the lappet of his coat, and looked up into his face as though supplicating him to give her the advantage of all his discretion and all his honesty.

They were still standing on the pavement, where the street comes out from under the archway. She was gazing into his face, and he was looking away from her, over towards the inner railings of the square, with heavy brow and dull eye and motionless face. She was very eager, and he seemed to be simply patient, but nevertheless he was working hard with his thoughts, striving to determine how best he might answer her. His mother had told him that he might model this woman to his will, and had repeated to him that story which he had heard so often of the wrong that had been done to him by his uncle Jonathan. It may be said that there was no need for such repetition, as John Ball had himself always thought quite enough of that injury. He had thought of it for the last twenty years, almost hourly, till it was graven upon his very soul. He had been a ruined, wretched, moody man, because of his uncle Jonathan’s will. There was no need, one would have said, to have stirred him on that subject. But his mother, on this morning, in the ten minutes before prayer-time, had told him of it all again, and had told him also that the last vestige of his uncle’s money would now disappear from him unless he interfered to save it.