It was quite natural, thought the hard old woman, with a momentary feeling of pity for the lonely girl; but it was necessary to make sure of Upfold Farm, and she drew old Marlowe's slate to her, and wrote on it, very distinctly, "Has thee made thy will ?" The dejected, miserable expression came back to his face, as his thoughts were recalled to the loss he had sustained, and he nodded his answer to Mrs.Nixey.
"And left all to Phebe ?" she wrote again.
Again he nodded.

It was all right so far, and Mrs.Nixey felt glad she had made sure of the ground.

The little farm was worth L15 a year, and old Marlowe himself had once told her that his money brought him in L36 yearly, without a stroke of work on his part.

How money could be gained in this way, with simply leaving it alone, she could not understand.

But here was Phebe Marlowe with L50 a year for her fortune: a chance not to be lost by her son Simon.