"Yes, father, I do now," said his son, smiling. "Bless my soul! Why, Luke, you ought to grow rich." "Well, I suppose so, father; but I don't much care. I should like to grow famous, and make myself a name." "And you will, my boy--you will," cried the old man, as Luke slipped off his legal uniform, and replaced the wig and gown. "Time proves all things, father." "And may I look? I won't tell. Is this another brief?" "Yes, father; I get plenty now." "But--but--you are not paid fifty guineas a-piece for them, my boy?" "Yes, father, I take nothing below that fee now, and even then I get more than I can undertake." The old man threw himself back in his chair, and, after a struggle, drew out of his trousers pocket a reddish canvas bag, and untied the string around the neck. "Why, what are you going to do, father?" said Luke. "I'm going to pay my son the fee for the brief in Cyril Mallow's case, and I'm as proud as proud to have it to do." "No, no," cried Luke; "that must not be." "But I will, my boy, I will," said the old man. "No, no, father, I could not take it. You would hurt me if you pressed it." "But I've plenty of money, my boy." "So have I, father, and I could not do my duty in that defence if it was a matter of payment. If I take that brief," he said, solemnly, "my payment is Sage Mallow's thanks and her children's prayers." The old man sat thinking for a few moments. "You are right, my boy, you are right," he said, replacing his bag. "And, of course, all I have is yours. But you will take the brief, Luke, my boy?" "Yes, father, if I can I will." "Then you will," cried the old man, joyously. "Hah, let's look at that. It's a big one, Luke;" and he picked up, with his eyes sparkling with paternal pride, the brief brought in that morning by Mr Swift. "Hah! this has been altered," said the old man. "It was twenty-five guineas, and that's crossed out, and they've written fifty. I'll bet twopence they offered you twenty-five first, and you wouldn't take it." "Quite right, father," said Luke, upon whom his father's enjoyment came like so much sunshine in a dull life. "Quite right, my boy, quite right. Let 'em know your value. You're a man of business, Luke. Now, what's this, my boy?" "I really don't know, father, only that it is for the prosecution in an important criminal case." "Criminal case, eh? And you haven't studied it, then?" "Not yet. I was going to finish Jones _versus_ Lancaster first." "And this is _re_ Esdaile, eh? What's that? Esdaile, Esdaile, and Co. Why, that's the name of the wine-merchants' firm where Cyril Mallow was partner." "_What_?" roared Luke. He snatched the brief from his father's hand, tore it open, and as the leaves fluttered in his trembling hand he sank back in a chair, looking like one who had received some deadly blow. PART THREE, CHAPTER FIVE. A HARD DUTY. Old Michael Ross was at his son's side on the instant.