"Oh, Eli, do not talk like that," sighed the invalid. "For my sake and his--let pride be set aside. If Henry Artingale really cares for Cynthia he will not mind, and as for Mr Perry-Morton, I heard when we were in town that his father made an immense fortune in some very low class trade. Say _yes_, and let us hope that Sage--" "Sage!" said the Rector. "Bitter herb! A pity it is not Rue. Bitter herbs for us to eat. Heigho! nothing but troubles, I suppose. Then you quite adopt her now?" "For my boy's sake--yes," said the invalid. "Then you do give way?" "For the last time--yes." "And you will go and see the Portlocks?" "Yes." "And I may tell Cyril this?" "Yes." "God bless you, Eli! You are always good to me," sobbed the poor woman; and the tears stood in her husband's eyes as he knelt down and took her in his arms. At that time Mr Cyril Mallow, the sick, sat up in bed and lit a fresh cigar before comfortably rearranging himself for a good skim of the sporting papers. About a couple of hours after, as the Churchwarden was returning from a round amongst his sheep, he caught sight of the Rector coming to meet him, when a long conversation took place, one that ended by the gate leading into the home close. "Well, parson," said Portlock, as they parted, "as I said before, I'll make no promises but this--I won't be hard. My niece's happiness is what I wish to bring about before I die; and if she wants to have him, and he really will steady down and make her a good husband, why, I suppose it must be. Now I must go away and think." They shook hands and parted, the Rector going thoughtfully home with his hands behind him, and his stick whisking right and left, tail fashion, and up and down, while he talked to himself about his weakness in giving way, and wondering what was to be the outcome of an arrangement that seemed like breaking faith on his part with Luke Ross. As he reached the gate he smelt the smoke of a cigar, and, in spite of his knowledge of his son's ways, he could not help feeling surprised at the sight of Cyril coolly walking up and down, the message he had had from his mother having apparently effected a miraculous cure. "Better, Cyril?" he said, drily. "Yes, sir, I'm pretty well all right now," was the reply; and the Rector sighed, and began to feel a strange sensation of regret stealing over him, as once more he asked himself what was to be the end. Meanwhile, the Churchwarden had gone on to the farm, and entered by the kitchen door, where Mrs Portlock was busy dividing her attention between scolding the maids and mincing meat for sausages. He gave her a short nod, and went on into the parlour, treading upon the mats so as to make no sound, and there finding Sage so preoccupied that, as she sat with her back to him, she did not notice her uncle's entrance. Pen, ink, and paper were before her, and on her right an envelope.