Mr. Whitwell and his favourite daughter were spending a cosy evening together in the library at Hornby Hall. The lamps which lighted the room were shaded, the curtains were drawn, and the fire burned brightly. Tom sat on a low chair by her father’s side, and he laid his hand lovingly on the short curls of her closely-cropped head. “Now, tell me if I understand you rightly, Tom,” he said. “Instead of the usual pocket-money which has been your share—a Benjamin’s portion always, you know, because you are my youngest—you want me to give you a pound a month. Next, you wish me to forget that I have a mortgage on John’s land, which, indeed, as you say, I no longer hold since you have it. I am not going to ask you to tell me what is in your heart to do, Tom; but you are too sensible not to remember that business is business and right is right. I cannot afford to make John a present of that deed, and he would not accept it if I did.” “But he is dreadfully in want of money, isn’t he, father?” “Yes, he is; and so will you be soon if you try to make twelve pounds a year do for your necessities. Does it not cost you half-a-crown each time you go to London, even travelling by third class? And you would not be content to go up less frequently than once a week; for what would your young Crusaders do if they did not see you, and what would happen to your old and sick people here if you never had a shilling to give them?” “But a pound a month would not be all I should have. I have learnt how to earn money by my own talents and industry. Has not that a grand sound?” “What do you mean, dear?” “I have become a contributor of pictures to the daily papers. You did not know that you had an artist in the family, did you?” “No, and I do not know it now.” “That is too bad of you. Really, I have been earning a little money in that way for some time past. There, you see, I cannot keep a secret after all. But, seriously, father, I feel so sorry for Cousin John. He looks most anxious and miserable, excepting when he is doing something for others, and then he brightens up. I know you are not rich, nor as comfortably off as you might be if you would let that scapegrace heir shift as he can by-and-by; but do you not think that you could strain a point, and let me send that parchment to Cousin John as a Christmas-box?” “No, Tom. It is very unreasonable of you to expect such a thing. Besides, John wants more than a hundred and fifty pounds a year to lift him out of his troubles. I have generally credited you with a fair amount of good sense. Do not disappoint me now.” But Tom was very persevering, and persistence generally wins. She was correct in saying that John Dallington looked full of care. Indeed, neither he nor Margaret Miller would have been able to bear the worries of that time equably, but for the vivid interest which each was taking in the new life that was developing around them.