"Course I wasn't going to say so before, sir, because it's a man's dooty like to go seeking for what's lost; but, mark my words, sir, one o' these days that poor fellow will be throwed up pretty close to where he jumped in. You mark my words, he will, and Poll Perrow will be the first to see." Leslie thought but little of the man's words then; in fact he hardly heard them, for in those hours his mind was full of Louise's sufferings, and the terrible misfortune which had come upon the homes of those two families so linked together, and now so torn apart. Unsuccessful in his search, he was now terribly exercised in mind as to what he should do to help or show some sympathy for the poor girl who, in the sorrow which had befallen her home, seemed nearer and dearer to him than ever. It was a hard problem to solve. He wished to show his willingness to help, but he felt that his presence at the Vines' could only be looked upon now as an intrusion, and must inflict pain. On the other hand, he was in dread lest he should be considered indifferent, and in this state of perplexity he betook himself to Uncle Luke. "Nonsense, my good fellow," said the old man quickly; "what more could you have done?" "I don't know," he said desolately. "Tell me; I want to help--to serve you all if I can, and yet I seem to do nothing." "There is nothing that we can do," said the old man solemnly. "Time must be the only cure for their trouble. Look at me, Duncan Leslie; I came to live up here with the fewest of necessities--alone, without wife or child, to be away from trouble, and you see I have failed. I cannot even help myself, so how can you expect to help them? There, leave it all to time." "And your brother, how is he?" Leslie felt that he had been speaking for the sake of saying something, and he bit his lip, as the old man gave him a peculiar look. "How is a man likely to be who has lost a son as he has lost his?" Leslie was silent. "And now you would ask after my niece, young man, but you feel as if you dare not." Leslie gave him an imploring look. "Broken-hearted as her poor father, Leslie, seeing nothing in the future but one black cloud of misery. There, let's go out and sit in the sunshine and think." Leslie followed the old man without a word. He longed to ask his advice about that future, and to question him about the friend in France, for in spite of himself he could not help feeling a thrill of satisfaction at the thought that for a certainty there must be an end to that engagement. No scion of a great house could enter into an alliance with the sister of a man whose career had ended as had ended Harry Vine's. But he could not lay bare his heart to that cynical old man, who read him as easily as the proverbial book, and on whose lip there was always lurking the germ of a sneering smile.