"Margaret," he said, "it's very good of you to come, but as to myself, no one's coming can be of any use to me." "It is all in the hands of God, Tom." "No doubt, no doubt," said he, sadly, not daring to argue such a point with her, and yet feeling but little consolation from her assurance. "So is the bullock in God's hands when the butcher is going to knock him on the head, but yet we know that the beast will die. Men live and die from natural causes, and not by God's interposition." "But there is hope; that is what I mean. If God pleases--" "Ah, well. But, Margaret, I fear that he will not please; and what am I to do about Sarah and the children?" This was a question that could be answered by no general platitude,--by no weak words of hopeless consolation. Coming from him to her, it demanded either a very substantial answer, or else no answer at all. What was he to do about Sarah and the children? Perhaps there came a thought across her mind that Sarah and the children had done very little for her,--had considered her very little, in those old, weary days, in Arundel Street. And those days were not, as yet, so very old. It was now not much more than twelve months since she had sat by the deathbed of her other brother,--since she had expressed to herself, and to Harry Handcock, a humble wish that she might find herself to be above absolute want. "I do not think you need fret about that, Tom," she said, after turning these things over in her mind for a minute or two. "How, not fret about them? But I suppose you know nothing of the state of the business. Has Rubb spoken to you?" "He did say some word as we came along in the cab." "What did he say?" "He said--" "Well, tell me what he said. He said, that if I died--what then? You must not be afraid of speaking of it openly. Why, Margaret, they have all told me that it must be in a month or two. What did Rubb say?" "He said that there would be very little coming out of the business--that is, for Sarah and the children--if anything were to happen to you." "I don't suppose they'd get anything. How it has been managed I don't know. I have worked like a galley slave at it, but I haven't kept the books, and I don't know how things have gone so badly. They have gone badly,--very badly." "Has it been Mr Rubb's fault?" "I won't say that; and, indeed, if it has been any man's fault it has been the old man's. I don't want to say a word against the one that you know. Oh, Margaret!" "Don't fret yourself now, Tom." "If you had seven children, would not you fret yourself? And I hardly know how to speak to you about it. I know that we have already had ever so much of your money, over two thousand pounds; and I fear you will never see it again." "Never mind, Tom; it is yours, with all my heart. Only, Tom, as it is so badly wanted, I would rather it was yours than Mr Rubb's. Could I not do something that would make that share of the building yours?"