“Yes,” he interrupted with unexpected passion, “I understand what you would say; that you would thrust your uncle down my throat. But, after all, are you not _my_ son--not his? I reared you until you were ten years old. When you were a small child and burning with fever, who was it that used to walk up and down with you in his arms for hours? Not your uncle Dan. Who was it that first set you on the back of a pony and taught you to sit like a Bengal sowar? Not your uncle Dan. Who was it that lifted you out of your dying mother’s embrace? Not your uncle Dan. You are my own flesh and blood; in all the wide world I have now no one but you. Since Osman died I have not a single friend. I am surrounded by vampires of servants. My heir prays on his knees nightly to his patron saint for the telegram that will carry the news of my death. I believe the form is here in Fuzzil’s possession, filled up, all but the _date_! I am a miserable, solitary, dying wretch, and I appeal to you, my son, to spare me a few months of your healthy, happy life, and to stay beside me and protect me. Do I,” leaning his elbows on the table, and searching his son’s face intently, “appeal in vain?” “You wish me to live here with you altogether?” “Yes,” with curt emphasis. “To give up my uncle?” “For a time, yes. I seem cruelly selfish, but I am as a drowning man snatching at a spar. You _will_ stay?” A tremor ran through his voice. “I cannot. No; I promised Uncle Dan that I would certainly return,” rejoined his son firmly. “Your uncle has health, wealth, a wife, and many friends. Surely he can spare you to a sick and desolate man. The Almighty has afflicted me sorely. If you abandon me to my fate, and gallop back to your gay life and companions, the day will come when you will bitterly repent it. Osman’s burthen has fallen on you, and will my own son do less for me than an alien in blood, a Mahomedan in faith, a poor, unenlightened, faithful sowar?” And he stretched out his hand, and fixed an interrogative gaze on his companion. The paleness of concentrated feeling tinged the young man’s face, a few drops of sweat stood on his forehead. “Mark, what is your answer?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Be quick. Say yes or no--yes or no.” “Not now, sir,” suddenly standing up. “You must give me time. Give me forty-eight hours.” “Ah, there is something more than your uncle,” with a swift expressive glance; and he rose and put his hands heavily on his son’s shoulders. “I know,” gazing straight into his eyes with a mad keenness in his look, “there is, of course, a _woman_ in the case?” “There is,” admitted Mark, holding himself erect. “An hour before I got your letter, I had asked a girl to be my wife.” “And you need not tell me her answer--_yes_, of course; young, rich, handsome! The world is full of women--over-run with them. A man can have fifty sweethearts, but he has only one father!” “There is only one sweetheart in the world for me,” returned his son proudly.