"I liked Sage Portlock--I always did like her, my boy; and as you are getting on so well, and don't want the money I've scraped up for you, I wouldn't mind helping her in her trouble." "It's very good of you, father," said the young man, smiling sadly. "But it would be like pouring money into a well if her husband gets hold of it." "If it is a case such as you describe, father," said Luke, thoughtfully, "I doubt whether money would be of much good." The old man looked very anxiously at his son, even with a kind of awe, as if he were afraid of him. "I don't like to ask him," he muttered, "I don't like to ask him;" and he took out his old faded handkerchief and began nervously wiping his hands upon it, till Luke, in his abstraction, turned his eyes upon him with a vacant look that gradually became intense, as his father grew more nervous and troubled of mien. As the old man shrank and avoided the gaze which drew him back, as it were, to look appealingly in the stern, searching eyes of his son, Luke spoke to him with the sharpness of one trying to master an evading witness, so that the old man started as the young barrister exclaimed-- "What is it, father? You are keeping something back." "I--I hardly liked to say it, my boy. Don't be angry with me." "Angry with you! What nonsense, father. But speak out. What is it? You want to say something to me." "Ye-es, my boy, I do. But give me your hand, and don't speak so sharp and angrily to me. I'm--I'm getting old and nervous now, and a very little seems to upset me. I don't even like to walk amongst the tan-pits now, where I used to run without being a bit afraid. Thank you, my boy, thank you," he continued, nervously, as Luke caught and held his hand. "It's a way I have of speaking, father," he said. "Angry? With you? Why my dear father, how could I be?" "I--I don't know, my boy; but you promise me that you won't be angry?" "Not a bit, father," cried Luke, with assumed cheeriness. "There, dad, I promise you I won't even be cross if you have been and married a young wife." "Me? Married a young wife? Ha! ha! ha! That's very funny of you, my boy, very funny; but I haven't done that, Luke; I haven't done that. I married at eight-and-thirty, Luke, and once was enough. But you won't be angry?" "No, no, not a bit. Now come, confess. What is it? I hope you haven't been investing in some shaky company." "Oh no, my boy, not I. My bit of money has all been put in land, every hundred I could spare out of the business. But you said, my boy, you-- you wanted to help Mrs Cyril." Luke's countenance changed again, but he nodded, and said hastily-- "Yes, father, of course. What can I do?" "She--she said--" "Who? Mrs Cyril Mallow?" "Yes, my boy," said the old man, clinging to him. "Mrs Cyril, she--she asked me to come and see you." "Sage--Mrs Mallow did?" cried Luke, sharply. "You promised me, my boy, that you would not be cross with me," quavered the old man.