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“Let us go and see these people and make sure,” said Annie. “‘Hale and Hearty,’ do they call themselves? But I’m going with you myself this time! I’m not going to have such another day as I had yesterday–waiting for you till the sun was down, and all was dark, you bad man!–and fancying all manner of terrible things! I wonder–I wonder, if–“

“Well, what do you wonder, Annie?”

“Only whether, if now we were to find out it was indeed all a mistake, I should yet be able to hope on through all the rest. I doubt it; I doubt it! Oh, Hector, you have taught me everything!”

“More, it seems, than I have myself learned. Your mother had already taught you far more than ever I had to give you!”

“But it is much too early yet, I fear, to call in the City,” said Annie. “Don’t you think we should have time first to find out whether the gentleman we were thinking of inquiring after to-day be your old college friend or not? And I will call at the grocer’s, and tell him we hope to settle his bill in a few days. Then you can come to me, and I will go to you, and we shall meet somewhere between.”

They did as Annie propose; and before they met, Hector had found his friend, and been heartily received both by him and by his young wife.

When at length they reached Philpot Lane, and were seated in an outer room waiting for admission, Annie said: “Surely, if rich people knew how some they do not know need their help, they would be a little more eager to feather their wings ere they fly aloft by making friends with the Mammon of unrighteousness. Don’t you think it may be sometimes that they are afraid of doing harm with their money?”

“I’m afraid it is more that they never think what our Lord meant when he said the words. But oh, Annie! is it a bad sign of me that the very possibility of this money could make me so happy?”

They were admitted at length, and kindly received by a gray-haired old man, who warned them not to fancy so much money would last them very long.

“Indeed, sir,” answered Annie, “the best thing we expect from it is that it will put my husband in good heart to begin another book.”

“Oh! your husband writes books, does he? Then I begin to understand my late client’s will. It is just like her,” said the old gentleman. “Had you known her long?”

“I never once saw her,” said Hector.

“But I did,” said Annie, “and I heard her say how delighted she was with his first book. Please, sir,” she added, “will it be long before you can let us have the money?”

“You shall have it by-and-by,” answered the lawyer; “all in good time.”

And now first they learned that not a penny of the money would they receive before the end of a twelvemonth.

“Well, that will give us plenty of time to die first,” thought Hector, “which I am sure the kind lady did not intend when she left us the money.”

Another thing they learned was that, even then, they would not receive the whole of the money left them, for seeing they could claim no relation to the legator, ten per cent must be deducted from their legacy. If they came to him in a year from the date of her death, he told them he would have much pleasure in handing them the sum of four hundred and fifty pounds.

So they left the office–not very exultant, for they were both rather hungry, and had to go at once in search of work–with but a poor chance of borrowing upon it.

Nevertheless, Hector broke the silence by saying:

“I declare, Annie, I feel so light and free already that I could invent anything, even a fairy tale, and I feel as if it would be a lovely one. I hope you have a penny left to buy a new bottle of ink. The ink at home is so thick it takes three strokes to one mark.”