“My dear Cossey,” it began,—­

“Ida has shown me the inclosed letter.  I think that you did unwisely when you entered into what must be called a money bargain for my daughter’s hand.  Whether under all the circumstances she does either well or wisely to repudiate the engagement after it has once been agreed upon, is not for me to judge.  She is a free agent and has a natural right to dispose of her life as she thinks fit.  This being so I have of course no option but to endorse her decision, so far as I have anything to do with the matter.  It is a decision which I for some reasons regret, but which I am quite powerless to alter.

“Believe me, with kind regards,
“Truly yours,
“James de la Molle.”

Edward Cossey turned his face to the wall and indulged in such meditations as the occasion gave rise to, and they were bitter enough.  He was as bent upon this marriage as he had ever been, more so in fact, now that his father was out of the way.  He knew that Ida disliked him, he had known that all along, but he had trusted to time and marriage to overcome the dislike.  And now that accursed Quest had brought about the ruin of his hopes.  Ida had seen her chance of escape, and, like a bold woman, had seized upon it.  There was one ray of hope, and one only.  He knew that the money would not be forthcoming to pay off the mortgages.  He could see too from the tone of the Squire’s letter that he did not altogether approve of his daughter’s decision.  And his father was dead.  Like Caesar, he was the master of many legions, or rather of much money, which is as good as legions.  Money can make most paths smooth to the feet of the traveller, and why not this?  After much thought he came to a conclusion.  He would not trust his chance to paper, he would plead his cause in person.  So he wrote a short note to the Squire acknowledging Ida’s and his letter, and saying that he hoped to come and see them as soon as ever the doctor would allow him out of doors.

Meanwhile George, having delivered his letter, had gone upon another errand.  Pulling up the fat pony in front of Mr. Quest’s office he alighted and entered.  Mr. Quest was disengaged, and he was shown straight into the inner office, where the lawyer sat, looking more refined and gentlemanlike than ever.

“How do you do, George?” he said cheerily; “sit down; what is it?”

“Well, sir,” answered that lugubrious worthy, as he awkwardly took a seat, “the question is what isn’t it?  These be rum times, they be, they fare to puzzle a man, they du.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Quest, balancing a quill pen on his finger, “the times are bad enough.”

Then came a pause.

“Dash it all, sir,” went on George presently, “I may as well get it out; I hev come to speak to you about the Squire’s business.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Quest.

“Well, sir,” went on George, “I’m told that these dratted mortgages hev passed into your hands, and that you hev called in the money.”