'It is this. I am not Lindsay of Earlshaugh—not the owner of the estate I mean. I am poor, poor, Annot, yet not penniless; I have my old allowance and my pay—but this beautiful estate is not mine.'
'Not yours?'
'No—not a foot of it—not a tree—not a stone!'
Her lips were firmly set, and the rose-leaf tint in her delicate cheeks died away.
'Whose, then, is it?'
'My father—weakly—my father——'
'To whom did he leave the property?' she asked, lifting her head from his shoulder and speaking with a sharpness he did not then notice; 'is it as I have heard whispered?'
'To my stepmother—yes. You knew of that—you suspected it, my darling?' he added, with a sudden access of hope and joy—hope in her unselfishness and purity of love.
She made no immediate reply.
'Is this unjust will tenable?' she asked, after a time.