For a full minute there was silence in the big room. Then St. Quentin looked up.
“It’s rather late in the day,” he said, “but possibly better late than never. Sydney, will you write a letter for me?”
She thought of another letter she had written for him more than two months ago, but there was a considerable difference in the subject matter of that letter and to-day’s.
“Dear Fane,”—he dictated—“we must have five hundred pounds’ worth of timber down as soon as possible, as I want fresh cottages to replace those in Water Lane and Foxholes. Have workmen over immediately. This rebuilding is by the wish of my heir, Miss Lisle.”
“Now bring it me to sign,” her cousin said.
She brought it, and, as she gave him his pen, she did what she had never done before, she stooped and kissed his forehead.
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“I didn’t like to tell you before,” she cried, “because you said you could do nothing for the cottages, but Mrs. Sawyer is ill, and when I went to see her this afternoon she said she never would be better while she lived in that cottage. Will she have one of the new ones, St. Quentin?”
“Yes, and I’ll mark hers for pulling down. We’ll do this business thoroughly while we’re about it, beginning with Lislehurst, but going on to the rest.”
He wrote his signature large and clearly. As he did so, Sir Algernon came back into the room. He glanced at the letter.
“So you’ve done it. I say, my dear fellow, philanthropy is all very well, but you can’t afford it at present.”
“Since when did I give you leave to read my private letters?” asked St. Quentin drily. As he spoke he placed the letter in an envelope, directed it, and put it into Sydney’s hand.
“One of the men is to take it over to Fane’s place at once,” he said.
Sir Algernon stood between the girl and the door. “You’re mad, Quin! You’ll have enough to do to raise my screw, without attempting any more.”
“Let Miss Lisle pass,” said St. Quentin
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 quietly. “On the proverbial second thoughts, which we all know to be not only better, but best, I have changed my mind. Publish Duncombe’s letter if you choose! I’ll not pay a farthing more to stop you, nor will Miss Lisle when she comes of age. That’s all. Sydney,”—the girl was at the door—“tell somebody to let Bridge’s man know that he finds he has to catch the 8.15 to town to-night.”
The girl went out, the precious note in her hand and a tumult of joy in her heart.
That horrible Sir Algernon was leaving, and St. Quentin, of his own freewill, was going to rebuild his neglected cottages. She felt she could have danced, despite the dignity of her eighteen years.
In the entrance hall she met the old doctor, struggling out of his wet mackintosh and goloshes. “What a night!” he exclaimed. “But this disgusting weather seems to suit you, my dear Miss Lisle. You are looking blooming, if you will allow an old man to say so. How is your cousin, eh? Moped a bit this dreary day, no doubt? Meant to look in upon him earlier to see if he fancied a chat, but I was kept in the village. And that reminds me, my dear young lady, I shouldn’t
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 go to Loam for a day or two, if I were you; they’ve got something about there that I don’t quite like the look of. I’ve been warning the Vicar; that boy of his follows him about like a dog to all the cottages. Not that this kind of low fever is infectious, but you may take my word for it that where there’s fever there’s a reason for it. So don’t you go to Loam till I give you leave. Not that I’m anxious, you know, not at all.”
Sydney thought the old doctor was rather more anxious than he cared to own. His face was considerably g............