“But it might, Jack,” the little lady urged; “and so we must always feel we cannot ever do enough for you.” That Jack had had no choice in the matter of coming into their lives did not appear to strike her; but what of that?—she could not love him less or more either way. “What I want to say, Jack dear,” she continued, “is that sister and I have often thought how foolish it was that you should have to wait until we are dead to have our money when we would much rather you had it now. As you know, we have three hundred pounds a year each, and however much we try we cannot spend more than fifty pounds each, living in this quiet country parsonage. So we think if you would take the remaining five hundred pounds a year you might be able to win something of all you want, and we should never miss it at all.” “How good you are—how good you both are,” was all he could say. “And you will take it?” with unconcealed eagerness. “No, no,” hastily. “It is impossible—quite, quite impossible. Oh, auntie! how could I—a great strong fellow such as I—with my health and strength, take away the income of two frail women?” “Jack dear,” she urged tearfully, “don’t look at it in that way. It is only that we long to repay you for all the happiness you have brought into our lives.” “It is impossible, auntie,” he said, and his eyes glistened. “Jack,”—there was a new note of tenderness in Miss Mary’s voice—“is there anything between you and Eileen?” For answer he dropped his face in his hands with a low groan. For some moments Miss Mary was silent. She could not trust herself to speak. “Don’t think your old auntie over-curious, Jack,” she said at last. “I love you so. It is just as if the pain was mine again, as it was long ago. It is because I suffered so once, and understand it all, I came to you to-night. Perhaps if you could tell me about it—” “You are an angel, auntie,” he murmured, and gripped the little hand in his until he hurt it. Miss Mary waited. “She doesn’t care, auntie,” he said at last, as if the words were wrung from him. “It just seems as if nothing in heaven or earth matters since Eileen does not care.” “Poor boy; poor laddie,” and a hot tear fell on his hand. “And I don’t know why she should care,” he ran on, finding relief in speaking. “What have I ever done or been that she should care for me? I must always have seemed just a great, lazy schoolboy, and not a man at all. And yet I have loved her since she was a little serious-faced thing in pinafores. I can’t think why I did not realise it sooner, and try to do something that might teach her to care. Instead, I have just waited until the wolf came and stole her heart away, and found out how terribly I cared when the mischief was all done.”