"No," he said, "I don't think you could. Go to him now. Tell him it will all be cleared up some day, perhaps sooner than we think." "Where is he?" she said quietly. "In his study." She nodded her head with a confident look in her eyes, crossed the hall, and tapped at the study door. "Come in." The words bidding her to enter were uttered in so calm and matter-of-fact a way that Madelaine felt startled, and Uncle Luke's words, "I am uneasy about George," came with a meaning they had not before possessed. She entered, and stopped short, for there before the open window, close to which was a glass vessel full of water, stood George Vine, busy with a microscope, by whose help he was carefully examining the structure of some minute organism, while one busy hand made notes upon a sheet of paper at his side. His face was from her, and he was so intent upon his task that he did not turn his head. "Breakfast?" he said quietly. "I shall not have any. Yes," he added hastily; "bring me a cup of tea, Liza--no sugar, and a little dry toast." A pang shot through Madelaine's heart, and for a few moments she strove vainly to speak. "It is I, Mr Vine," she faltered at last in a voice she did not recognise as her own. "Madelaine, my child!" he cried, starting and dropping his pencil as he turned. "How rude of me! So intent upon this beautiful preparation of mine here. Very, very glad to see you," he continued, as he took her hands in his. "How is your father this morning?" "I--I have not seen him this morning," faltered Madelaine as she gazed upon the pale, lined face before her, to note the change thereon, in spite of the unnatural calmness which the old man had assumed; "I--I came on at once, as soon as I had heard." He drew in a long breath as if her words were cutting him. Then raising her hands to his lips he kissed them tenderly. "Like you," he said gently, "like you, my child. There, I have nothing to say, nothing to hear." "But, dear Mr Vine," cried Madelaine, as she clung to him, and her tears fell fast, "I am sure--" He smiled down at her lovingly, as he kissed her hand again. "Spare me, my child," he said. "Never mention her name again." "But, Mr Vine--" "Hush, my dear! It is like you," he whispered. "Good, gentle, and forgiving. Let the whole of the past be dead." "But, Mr Vine, Louise--" "Hush!" he said sternly. "There, come and sit down and talk to me. No, my dear, I had a nasty fainting attack last night, but I am not mad. You need not fear that. Let the past be dead, my child. Will you bring me some tea?" Madelaine's face worked pitifully, as she clung to him for a few moments, and then, as he resumed his place at the table, she felt that the hour was not opportune, and turned to leave the room. At that moment there was a gentle tap at the door. "See who that is, my child," said Vine, quietly; "and do not let me be interrupted. If it is my brother, ask him not to speak to me to-day."