"Is that all! You are quite sure it is all?" said Hilary at last, pointing to the whole amount, and looking steadily into Ascott's eyes. He flushed up, and asked what she meant by doubting his word? "Not that, but you might easily have made a mistake; you are so careless about money matters." "Ah, that's it. I'm just careless, and so I come to grief. But I never mean to be careless any more. I'll be as precise as you. I'll balance my books every week--every day if you like--exactly as you do at that horrid shop, Aunt Hilary." So he was rattling on, but Hilary stopped him by pointing to the figures. "You see, this sum is more than we expected. How is it to be met? Think for yourself. You are a man now." "I know that," said Ascott, sullenly; "but what's the use of it?--money only makes the man, and I have none. If the ancient Peter would but die now and leave me his heir, though to be sure Aunt Selina might be putting her oar in. Perhaps--considering I'm Aunt Selina's nephew--if I were to walk into the old chap now he might be induced to fork out! Hurrah! that's a splendid idea." "What idea?" "I'll borrow the money from old Ascott." "That means, because he has already given, you would have him keep on giving--and you would take and take and take--Ascott, I'm ashamed of you." But Ascott only burst out laughing. "Nonsence!--he has money and I have none; why shouldn't he give it me?" "Why?"--she repeated, her eyes flashing and her little feminine figure seeming to grow taller as she spoke--"I'll tell you, since you don't seem yourself to understand it. Because a young man, with health and strength in him, should blush to eat any bread but what he himself earns. Because he should work at any thing and every thing, stint himself of every luxury and pleasure, rather than ask or borrow, or, except under rare circumstances, rather than be indebted to any living soul for a single half-penny. I would not, if I were a young man." "What a nice young man you would make, Aunt Hilary!" There was something in the lad's imperturbable good humor at once irritating and disarming. Whatever his faults, they were more negative than positive; there was no malice prepense about him, no absolute personal wickedness. And he had the strange charm of manner and speech which keeps up one's outer surface of habitual affection toward a person long after all its foundations of trust and respect have hopelessly crumbled away. "Come now, my pretty aunt must go with me. She will manage the old ogre much better than I. And he must be managed somehow. It's all very fine talking of independence, but isn't it hard that a poor fellow should be living in constant dread of being carried off to that horrid, uncleanly, beastly den--bah! I don't like thinking of it--and all for the want of twenty pounds? You must go to him, Aunt Hilary."