Too apprehensive of what her errand might be to say that he was glad to see her, he bowed his head in sign of courteous attention, and waited. As she had come on her hateful errand, she had thought of how she would prepare the ground, in some way leading up to the petition she had to make, but speech was too difficult, and she could barely deliver herself of the necessary words: "I have come to ask you to give me fifty pounds," she said. Sir Francis's eyes opened largely upon her, but he did not speak. To say at once that he would give the poor child--the tool no doubt of her family, sent by them to work upon him because she was so pretty and young and appealing--fifty pounds without further explanation would be simply silly: to say that he would not did not enter his head. She had waited for an encouraging word; none coming; painfully she laboured on: "I say 'give' because I am not sure I could ever pay you--I earn so very little money. But if I ever can pay you, you may trust me that I shall." "I am sure you will," the rich man said, and waited for her to go on with her story. But she sat in an embarrassed silence before him, her head drooping, frightened and ashamed. "We will call it 'lent,' shall we?" presently he said. "You will feel happier so. And there will be no hurry. No hurry, at all." "Oh thank you! I do thank you so much. I want to tell you--" "No, no," he said and held up a hand to check the words upon her lips. It was ridiculous to give away money in such a fashion, but he had a feeling that if he knew its destination he should give it with more reluctance. "But I must tell you, please. I wanted to tell you before, but--" Her eyes avoided his face and wandered distressedly round the room. How well she remembered it! It was here she had come to beg this man--this stranger!--to keep her father out of prison. And now her brother--now Bernard! Was there any girl in all the world so overwhelmed with shame as she! "It is my brother--" she got out. "He--I have brought his letter." She found her pocket, and brought forth the letter which had come to her by the morning post, ravaging her heart, turning the sunshine black, making the song of the imprisoned lark opposite into a dirge, plunging her back into the woe which had been hers at the time of her father's disgrace. She drew the miserable letter from its envelope and held it to Sir Francis in trembling fingers. "No," he said, and waved it away. "It is perhaps something that your brother would rather not have known. Something which can remain between you and him. And this--this fifty pounds"--he had gone to his writing-table, pulled a cheque-book from a drawer, was writing within it as he spoke--"this also is between you and me. No one, besides, needs ever to know a word of it."