"Oh, uncle!" cried Louise, holding his hand to her cheek. "Yes; but not a penny for you, pussy. There, it don't matter. I shan't miss the money. If I run short, George, you'll give me a crust, same as you do Margaret?" "My dear Luke, I've told you a hundred times, I should be glad if you would give up that--that--" "Dog kennel?" sneered the old cynic. "That hut on the cliff, and come and share my home." "Yes, two hundred times, I'll swear," said Uncle Luke. "You always were weak, George. One idiot's enough for you to keep, and very little does for me. There's my larder," he continued, pointing toward the sea; "and as to Harry here, he won't miss the money. He's going to be the Count des Vignes, and take Aunt Marguerite over to Auvergne, to live in his grand chateau. Five hundred pound's nothing to him." The perspiration stood on Harry's brow, cold and damp, and he sat enduring all this torture. One moment he felt that his uncle suspected him, the next that it was impossible. At times a fierce sensation of rage bubbled up in his breast, and he felt as if he would have liked to strangle the keen-eyed old man; but directly after he felt that this was his punishment called down by his weakness and folly, and that he must bear it. "Going, Harry?" said his father, as the young man rose. "Yes; it is time I went on to the office." "Good boy. Punctuality's the soul of business," said Uncle Luke. "Pity we have no corporation here. You might rise to be mayor. Here, I don't think I shall go fishing to-day. I'll stop, and go with you two, to see old Van. Louie, dear, go and tell your aunt I'm here. She might like to come down and have a snarl." "Uncle, dear," said Louise, rising and kissing him, "you can't deceive me." She went out after Harry. "Not a pair, George," said Uncle Luke, grimly. "Louie's worth five hundred of the boy." "He'd drive me mad, Lou, he'd drive me mad," cried Harry, tearing his hand from his sister's grasp, and hurrying away; but only to run back repentant and kiss her fondly before going. Volume 2, Chapter V. THE TRIFLE THAT TELLS TALES. As Harry Vine left his father's house, and hurried down the slope, he gazed wildly out to sea. There were no thoughts of old Huguenot estates, or ancient titles, but France lay yonder over that glistening sea, and as he watched a cinnamon-sailed lugger gliding rapidly south and east, he longed to be aboard. Why should he not do as Pradelle had done--escape from the dangers which surrounded and hemmed him in? It was the easiest way out of his difficulties. There were several reasons. To go would stamp him with the crime, and so invite pursuit. To do this was to disgrace father and sister, and perhaps be taken and dragged back.