"Rupert, this is a blow for my son."
"If you persist in considering it so, I cannot help that. It must have been very foolish of you ever to cast a thought to your son's succeeding, whilst Joe's children were living."
"Foolish! when one of my sons—my step-son, at any rate—is to succeed, as it seems!"
The Squire laughed. "You must talk to Maude about that. They had settled their plans together before I came home. If Treve turns out all he should be, I may remember him before I die. Trevlyn Farm was originally the birthright of the Ryles; I may possibly make it so again in the person of Treve. Don't let us go on with the discussion; it will only be lost labour. Will you see Rupert?"
She had the sense to see that if it were prolonged until night, it would indeed be useless, and she rose to follow him into the next room. Rupert, not looking very ill to-day, sat near the fire. Maude was reading to him.
"Is it you, Aunt Ryle!" he called out feebly. "You never come to see me."
"I am sorry to hear you are so poorly, Rupert."
"I am not half as ill as I feared I should be," he said. "I thought by this time it—it would have been all over. But I seem better. Where's George?"
"George is at home. I have been talking to your uncle about him. Until to-day I did not know what was in contemplation."
"He'll make a better Squire than I should have made," cried Rupert, lifting his eyes—bluer and brighter than ever, from disease—to her face. Maude made her escape from the room, and Squire Trevlyn had not entered it, so they were alone. "But, Aunt Ryle, I want it to be soon; before I die. I should like George to be here to see the last of me."