The widow listened to this tender allusion to the shears without a smile of gratitude. She replied: “I hope my son will return in time to bury his father, and he will thank you himself, my lady.” “He has no taste for—a—for anything in the shape of trade, has he, Mrs. Harrington?” “I am afraid not, my lady.” “Any position—a situation—that of a clerk even—would be so much better for him!” The widow remained impassive. “And many young gentlemen I know, who are clerks, and are enabled to live comfortably, and make a modest appearance in society; and your son, Mrs. Harrington, he would find it surely an improvement upon—many would think it a step for him.” “I am bound to thank you for the interest you take in my son, my lady.” “Does it not quite suit your views, Mrs. Harrington?” Lady Racial was surprised at the widow’s manner. “If my son had only to think of himself, my lady.” “Oh! but of course,”—the lady understood her now—“of course! You cannot suppose, Mrs. Harrington, but that I should anticipate he would have you to live with him, and behave to you in every way as a dutiful son, surely? “A clerk’s income is not very large, my lady.” “No; but enough, as I have said, and with the management you would bring, Mrs. Harrington, to produce a modest, respectable maintenance. My respect for your husband, Mrs. Harrington, makes me anxious to press my services upon you.” Lady Racial could not avoid feeling hurt at the widow’s want of common gratitude. “A clerk’s income would not be more than £100 a year, my lady.” “To begin with—no; certainly not more.” The lady was growing brief. “If my son puts by the half of that yearly, he can hardly support himself and his mother, my lady.” “Half of that yearly, Mrs. Harrington?” “He would have to do so, and be saddled till he dies, my lady.” “I really cannot see why.” Lady Racial had a notion of some excessive niggardly thrift in the widow, which was arousing symptoms of disgust. Mrs. Harrington quietly said: “There are his father’s debts to pay, my lady.” “His father’s debts!” “Under £5000, but above £4000, my lady.” “Five thousand pounds! Mrs. Harrington!” The lady’s delicately gloved hand gently rose and fell. “And this poor young man”—she pursued. “My son will have to pay it, my lady.” For a moment the lady had not a word to instance. Presently she remarked: “But, Mrs. Harrington, he is surely under no legal obligation?” “He is only under the obligation not to cast disrespect on his father’s memory, my lady; and to be honest, while he can.” “But, Mrs. Harrington! surely! what can the poor young man do?” “He will pay it, my lady.” “But how, Mrs. Harrington?” “There is his father’s business, my lady.”