'Twas a London letter, and it came by the
afternoon post. All the poor master's hopes and dependencies for years
have been wrested from him. And if they'd give me my way, I'd prosecute
them postmen for bringing such ill luck to a body's door."
Charles stood something like a statue, the bright, sensitive colour
deserting his cheek. One of those causes, Might _versus_ Right, of
which there are so many in the world, had been pending in the Channing
family for years and years. It included a considerable amount of money,
which ought, long ago, to have devolved peaceably to Mr. Channing; but
Might was against him, and Might threw it into Chancery. The decision
of the Vice-Chancellor had been given for Mr. Channing, upon which
Might, in his overbearing power, carried it to a higher tribunal.
Possibly the final decision, from which there could be no appeal, had
now come.
"Judith," Charles asked, after a pause, "did you hear whether--whether
the letter--I mean the news--had anything to do with the Lord
Chancellor?"
"Oh, bother the Lord Chancellor!" was Judith's response. "It had to do
with somebody that's an enemy to your poor papa. I know that much.
Who's this?"
The hall door had opened, and Judith and Charles turned towards it. A
gay, bright-featured young man of three and twenty entered, tall and
handsome, as it was in the nature of the Channings to be. He was the
eldest son of the family, James; or, as he was invariably styled,
Hamish.
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