"Eh, eh!" he exclaimed. "I am glad we're of one mind on that point. We both doubtless believe that punishment would be good for him." "We do." "Then why deprive him of anything so beneficial?" "Because of my mother." "Your mother! Is there a mother in the case?" "There is--a mother who lies now at the point of death. Let me tell you her story." "I haven't read my letters yet, Miss Staunton." "Oh, never mind your letters! Let me tell you about my father and my mother. Four months ago my father was alive. He was a country doctor. He was very good, everyone loved him. He caught diphtheria, and died. My mother has heart disease, and my father felt sure that the shock of losing him would kill her. He loved her most tenderly. When he lay dying he was certain that God would allow them both to leave the world together. My mother was kneeling by his bedside; and George, my brother, knelt there too. And my brother said. 'Don't take mother away, father;' and then father said to mother, 'Stay with George.' At that moment something strange must have happened--all my mother's great love seemed suddenly directed into a new channel. Her love for George since that moment has been the passion of her life. He was not strong-minded." "No, indeed," interrupted Mr. Gering. "No; and he yielded to temptation and got into trouble, and--and lost money. But all the time my mother has been imagining that he is the best and steadiest fellow in London. She lives in a sort of golden dream about him. If she learns the truth she will certainly die, and George will be lost. He will then, as he himself expresses it, 'go under' forever. He won't be able to stand the thought that through his sin and weakness he has killed his mother." "I should hope not," interrupted Mr. Gering. "Therefore I want you to forgive him--it is your duty." "My duty, child! What right have you to come and talk to me about my duty?" "Every right, if I can only make you perform it." "You are either impertinent or very brave, young lady. I was never spoken to in this strain before." "Well, you see, it is a matter of life and death," said Effie. "I can't mince words when life and death hang in the balance." "You're a queer girl--a queer girl; I don't know what to make of you. 'Pon my word, I'm sorry for that mother of yours--poor soul, poor soul! It's a pity she didn't bring up her son as conscientiously as she did her daughter. Now, you wouldn't have taken fifty pounds out of my till?" "No," said Effie. "I wish you were a boy--I'd give you that lad's place within an hour." "Thank you, but I don't think I should care to have it. Will you come now and do your duty?" "Come! Where am I to come?" "To see George." "The rascal! Where is he?" "I'll take you to him." "Do you know that you are bullying me in the most shameful way, Miss Staunton?" "I know that you have a very kind heart," answered Effie. At this moment the room door was opened, and Power came in again.