“Something!” said Sara, with indignation; “heaps of things. I want to tell you and I want to ask you;--but, by-the-by, answer me first, before I forget, is this Mr. Powys very poor?” “Powys!” said Mr. Brownlow, with a suppressed thrill of excitement. “What of Powys? It seems to me I hear of nothing else. Where has the young fellow gone?” “_I_ did not do any thing to him,” said Sara, turning her large eyes full of mock reproach upon her father’s face. “You need not ask him from me in that way. I suppose he has gone home--to his mother and his little sisters,” she added, dropping her voice. “And what do you know about his mother and his little sisters?” said Mr. Brownlow, startled yet amused by her tone. “Well, he told me he had such people belonging to him, papa,” said Sara; “and he gave me a very grand description before that of what it is to be poor. I want to know if he is very poor? and could I send any thing to them, or do any thing? or are they too grand for that? or couldn’t you raise his salary or something? You ought to do something, since he is a favorite of your own.” “Did he complain to you?” said Mr. Brownlow, in consternation; “and I trust in goodness, Sara, you did not propose to do any thing for them as you say?” “No indeed; I had not the courage,” said Sara. “I never have sense enough to do such things. Complain! oh, dear no; he did not complain. But he was so much in earnest about it, you know, _apropos_ of that silly speech I made at luncheon, that he made me quite uncomfortable. Is he a--a gentleman, papa?” “He is my clerk,” said Mr. Brownlow, shortly; and then the conversation dropped. Sara was not a young woman to be stopped in this way in ordinary cases, though she did stop this time, seeing her father fully meant it; but all the same she did not stop thinking, which indeed, in her case, was a thing very difficult to do. Then Mr. Brownlow began to nerve himself for a great effort. It excited him as nothing had excited him for many a long year. He drew his child’s arm more closely through his own, and drew her nearer to him. They were going slowly down the avenue, upon which the afternoon sunshine lay warm, all marked and lined across by columns of trees, and the light shadows of the half-developed foliage. “Do you know,” he said, “I have been thinking a great deal lately about a thing you once said to me. I don’t know whether you meant it--” “I never say any thing I don’t mean,” said Sara, interrupting him; but she too felt that something more than usual was coming, and did not enlarge upon the subject. “What was it, papa?” she said, clinging still closer to his arm. “You refused Motherwell,” said Mr. Brownlow, “though he could have given you an excellent position, and is, they tell me, a very honest fellow. I told you to consider it, but you refused him, Sara.”