Soon after our return to Normandy I found on my breakfast-plate an envelope in my Grandmother's handwriting. As a rule her letters came in small square envelopes of the ordinary English shape and size. This one was long, plastered with extra stamps, notable-looking, parchmenty. Perhaps a consignment of tracts.

I found inside a heavy parchment document, covered with impressive copper-plate, together with a letter from my Grandmother, written not on her usual cream-coloured note-paper, but on whiter sheets with a thick black edging.

Could it be Aunt Jael? The first line reassured (?) me. It was Great-Uncle John, so rarely heard of, though known to me for ever as my Mother's "dear Uncle" and good man. It did not need my special greed and cunning to surmise rightly why his Will was sent to me. Inordinate hope—changing, as I rushed through my Grandmother's letter, into radiant certainty—stifled regret. (Regret would have been affectation, whispered Satan.) Without reading through the letter I stuffed the papers into the envelope and devoured my breakfast; preventing myself thinking till it should be over.

Suzanne had been watching me. "You have had good news I think?"

"Yes," I replied, unawares.

"I'm glad, because I noticed a black-rimmed envelope, and thought perhaps it might be bad."

In my boudoir I settled down at my leisure, luxuriously to learn the best. Grandmother's letter was one of the longest I ever had from her. As I read she came near me, became suddenly a part of the present. For an instant I saw her face, in the flesh. But the self that saw her was another Mary—Mary of Bear Lawn, full of fear and floggings, surrounded by God and Aunt Jael; not that Villebecq puppet. I could feel the selves changing place within me—and changing back....

All the old prayers, the immemorial pleadings. Love the Lord only, and His service. Dedicate this wealth to Him. Lay it not up where moth and rust do corrupt. His love is the only true riches. There is only His love, my dearie....

Grandmother dear! Noblest of all the Saints, now high among the Saints in Heaven. How much? I wondered.

I found a little summary made by the lawyer on half a sheet of notepaper, which spared my wading through the uncommaed intricacies of the Will itself.

Briefly: there was £400 for Grandmother, £200 for Aunt Jael, £100 each for Aunt Martha, Albert, and certain charities. All the rest—some £10,000, or about £500 a year—was left to me: me, Mary.

At first I could only think in exultant exclamation marks. Ten thousand Pounds! Five-hun-dred-pounds-a-year! (Sonorously mouthed.) Wealth, freedom, power!

I was my own mistress now. I could do any defiance, yet have my bread. Aunt Jael, urged the feeble voice of some-far-away Self. "Who is Aunt Jael?" asked Villebecq Mary: "Ah yes, to be sure, I remember." "I pay for the Child's music"—cry that two years ago could have rallied me to any revenge—"I" now stifled with a bland Pourquoi? How silly it seemed, how silly Revenge always is.

No, I would buy a house of my own—the ambition which life in the ChÂteau, and other dreamings, had made my chief one now—and I would live there with Robbie for ever. The hunger, the longing possessed me more mournfully, more passionately than for long months. I flung myself on the bed and covered the pillow with kisses....

I would help the Saints, play Lady Bountiful to the Lord, send much money for the heathen, succour more than one needy labourer in the Lord's vineyard abroad. "Sops," sneered Conscience. "Go and work in the Lord's vineyard yourself. All that thou hast—"

How furious Uncle Simeon would be, I reflected pleasurably. The Will provided that if I died all my share was to go (after use by Grandmother during the remainder of her lifetime) to Aunt Martha and Albert. So my life, which he loathed, was all that stood between Simeon Greeber and the money that he so much loved. Unkindest cut: I had plentiful cuts to repay. And for him alone, of Child Mary's enemies my present self nourished hatred: for I knew he was an enemy still.

Could he do anything?

Next morning's post brought the only letter he ever wrote me:—

No. 1, The Quay,
Torribridge, N. Devon.
November 7th, 1867 A. D.

Dear Young Niece,—

Often though one asks for your news—seeks to learn of your material and spiritual state—it has never before been one's sad pleasure to address you a letter in person. Two reasons have guided me today, after much prayer, to take this step. One is to express our sympathy—Martha's and one's own—with you in the loss of your Great-Uncle, who, though you never saw him in the flesh, must yet have been very near to you because of your knowledge of his goodness to your poor suffering Mother, now a saint in Heaven! Martha would have written herself, but she is not too well just now: the Lord is visiting her with bodily affliction. The other reason is to give oneself the opportunity of saying how glad one is to learn of the worldly good fortune poor dear Mr. Vickary's death has brought you. May you use it to His glory! If—one will be frank—one had any pangs of husbandly and fatherly jealousy at the lesser good fortune of one's dear wife and son, they were quickly o'ercome. Prayer has won one's heart from worship of the Golden Calf, and made one able to be with you in spirit in this new privilege and duty the Lord has conferred upon you. May you live long to use it in His Service is one's humble prayer!

One hears of you often thro' Martha and your dear Grandmother. One rejoices to know that, in that Papist land, you still find the reading of His Word the chief of all your joys. One hears that you appreciate most that "Book of the heart, and heart of the book," viz, the Psalms. Yes, one can find there words of succour for any circumstances, any frame of mind. The Psalms are prophetic of His sufferings and glory, notably the 22nd, opening with His cup of agony when abandoned for our sins; like Isaiah 53 they point only to Christ (how one loves verses 5 and 6 for the peace they have brought one)—Christ revealed by His Word and Spirit!

Poor dear Mr. Vickary, how quickly gone! One knew him not at all, but one felt it keenly. One believes he was naturally a good and lovable character—but how one longed to know something much more than that! One's own little son is giving one great hope and comfort. Though cursed with many faults, alas, of both character and temper; and humble as intellectually he may be; yet he reads the Word continually, and speaks to one freely on the subject, so that one can form a fair opinion of his spiritual state.

Dear Martha and Albert send their love, in which one is glad, with prayerful sincerity, to join. One has been dwelling much lately on Philippians iv, 8.

Accept one's best Wishes,

Simeon Greeber.

P.S. LAY NOT UP FOR YOURSELVES TREASURES UPON EARTH. (St. Matt. vi, 19.)

I was uneasy, but what could he do?

The family learned my good news, hoped only it did not mean my leaving them. To do so had indeed never crossed my mind; for my plans, house-dreamings and the rest were, as always, watertight: in the compartment of daydreams, and having no connection with my immediate doings. Even had I wanted to go away, I was as penniless as before until my twenty-first birthday should arrive.

The first two or three days after the Windfall I gave only these surface-thinkings a hearing. All the time—even from the very second the news entered my brain—Other Self was murmuring, though for a foolish day or two I fought her down. Then, one silent night, she broke loose, crashed through the silly web of pride, greed, and heathen-helping, and rained at Snob-Mary (whom "I" loathed this night till I could have spat in my loathing) the hard questions that only the fools who dare not face them say are not worth facing.

Are you not commoner, meaner, lower, since this money?

Is not the Safety you now possess utterly undeserved, selfish, fatal to your soul?

You have your wealth: how will God get even?

£500 is a goodly treasure: but what will it serve you 500 years from now?

Will gold protect you from Eternity?

Are you happier, any happier at all?

Life was a search for the happiness that is the secret of the world. The key was not of Gold.