Marston was delighted at the confidence reposed in him. It showed conclusively that he had won the esteem of Ruth’s father—that the object for which he had so patiently toiled was not far distant now. In anticipation of some such confession, Marston had studied the subject, and armed himself to the teeth with figures. He was enabled to present the most hopeful view possible to the old gentleman, and almost to persuade him that if the worst came to the worst there would still be something left from the wreck of his estate. Gradually, beneath his cheery influence John Adrian gathered heart. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘it does me good to hear you talk like that. If I were young I believe I could struggle through; but I am old, and my energy is gone. I have no one to look to for counsel or help. I have no son, no one but two weak women who look to me for protection.’ Marston shaped his lips for a reply and hesitated. For the first time in his life his self-possession deserted him. On the way in which the words he was about to utter were received depended his whole future destiny. He recovered himself with an effort, and then, with a slight tremor in his voice at first, he commenced to plead the cause he had nearest at heart. With powerful eloquence and genuine feeling he besought the old man’s attention while he, too, made a confession. Rapidly he told the narrative of his adventurous life, painting it in soft colours to attract the sympathy of his listener. He had led a wild youth, but that was past. A sober and laborious manhood had atoned for the errors of those old times. He had struggled on, with one object in view. In the midst of a thousand temptations he had stood firm, sustained by the thought of the reward which might be his, and he came to the end of the narrow path with unstained honour. He confessed his long love for Ruth. He told how he had determined after his first repulse to win her yet, for her sake to undo the past and return to fling himself at her feet, worthy of her at last. He pleaded so eloquently—he painted his hopes and fears with such genuine pathos—that the tears came into John Adrian’s eyes more than once; but he held his peace and let Marston continue his appeal. Gradually Marston came from the past to the present. With delicacy and tact he alluded to the present position of Ruth’s father. He would do his best to extricate him from it. He a friend in need, would not Mr. Adrian give him the right to act on his behalf as one of the family? He, Marston, was wealthy; he had a home to offer not only to Ruth, but, if the worst came, to Ruth’s father and mother. He might not have spoken so soon had not this calamity occurred. Now it was the duty of those who loved them to rally round them. Let the first friend to stretch out a helping hand to Ruth’s father and mother be the man who loved their daughter as his own life. Mr. Adrian held out his hand to Marston as he uttered the last words of his impassioned appeal.