‘Love and poverty!’ he said, with his harsh laugh; ‘a nice stock-in-trade upon which to set up in the business of life! However, I suppose you are no more foolish than all the fools who have travelled the same beaten road before your time: and the same old question remains to be solved by you, just as it has been solved by others—whether the love will outwear the poverty, or the poverty wear out the love.’ ‘We are not afraid to stand the test,’ said Lucius. ‘We are not afraid,’ echoed Lucille. CHAPTER XIII. HE FEARS HIS FATE TOO MUCH. The quiet course of Lucius Davoren’s life, so full of hard work and high hopes and simple unalloyed happiness, was by and by interrupted by a summons from Geoffrey, that spoiled child of fortune, who, in his hour of perplexity, turned again to that staunch friend whose counsel he had set at naught. This was Geoffrey Hossack’s letter: ‘Stillmington, August 13th. ‘Dear Lucius,—I daresay you’ll be surprised to see me still abiding in this sleepy old place, when yesterday’s gray dawn saw the first shot fired on many a moor from York to Inverness. However, here I am, and in sore distress of mind, no nearer a hopeful issue out of my perplexities than I was when you ran down here nearly four months ago to see that dear child. Will you come down again, like a good old fellow, forget how rude and ungracious I was the last time I saw you, and hear my difficulties, and help me if you can? ‘After all, you are the only man whose good sense and honour I would trust in such a crisis of my life—the only friend before whom I would bare the secrets of my heart. Do come, and promptly. ‘Yours, as ever, G. H.’ Of course Lucius complied. He left London early in the afternoon, and arrived at Stillmington towards evening. He found Geoffrey waiting on the platform, with much of the old brightness and youthfulness of aspect, but with a more thoughtful expression than of old in the candid face, a graver look about the firm well-cut mouth. They greeted each other in the usual off-hand manner. ‘Uncommonly sweet of you to come, old fellow,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I ought to have run up to you, of course, only—only I’ve taken root here, you see. I know every post in the streets, every tree in the everlasting avenues that make the glory of this slow old town. But still I remain. You’re looking fagged, Lucius, but bright as of old.’ ‘I have been working a little harder than usual, that is all,’ replied Lucius, who was disinclined to speak of his new happiness yet awhile. It would be time enough to tell Geoffrey when the future lay clearer before him; and as he had somewhat ridiculed his friend’s passion, he did not care to own himself a slave. ‘Now, Geoffrey, what is the matter?’ he asked presently, as they strolled slowly along one of those verdant avenues of lime and chestnut which surrounded the little gem-like town of Stillmington with a network of greenery. ‘Still the old story, I suppose.’