the curate. Brabazon, however, didn't care to part with them. He was no money-grubber, he said. He cared more for his mother's gift and a family tradition than for a hundred pounds, if Sir Charles were to offer it. Charles's eye gleamed. 'But if I give you two hundred!' he said insinuatingly. 'What opportunities for good! You could build a new wing to your village school-house!'
'We have ample accommodation,' the curate answered. 'No, I don't think I'll sell them.'
Still, his voice faltered somewhat, and he looked down at them inquiringly.
Charles was too precipitate.
'A hundred pounds more or less matters little to me,' he said; 'and my wife has set her heart on them. It's every man's duty to please his wife—isn't it, Mrs. Brabazon?—I offer you three hundred.'
The little Scotch girl clasped her hands.
'Three hundred pounds! Oh, Dick, just think what fun we could have, and what good we could do with it! Do let him have them.'
Her accent was irresistible. But the curate shook his head.
'Impossible,' he answered. 'My dear mother's ear-rings! Uncle Aubrey would be so angry if he knew I'd sold them. I daren't face Uncle Aubrey.'
'Has he expectations from Uncle Aubrey?' Sir Charles asked of White Heather.
Mrs. Brabazon laughed. 'Uncle Aubrey! Oh, dear, no. Poor dear old Uncle Aubrey! Why, the
