It was in this mood he got back to the little lodging in a humble suburb called Cullen's Wood, where Sir Brook awaited him. It is not impossible that the disparities of temperament in this world are just as beneficial, just as grateful, as are the boundless variety and change we find in nature. To Tom Lendrick's depression, almost disgust with life, Sir Brook brought that bright, hopeful, happy spirit which knew how to throw sunlight on every path to be travelled. He had received good news, or what he thought was good news, from Sardinia. A new vein of ore had been struck,--very “fat” ore they called it,--some eighty-odd per cent, and a fair promise of silver in it. “They ask me for thirty thousand francs, though, Tom,” said he, with a smile; “they might as well have written 'pounds' when they were about it. They want to repair the engine and erect a new crane. They say, too, the chains are worn and unsafe,--a thing to be looked to, or we shall have some accidents. In fact, they need fully double what they ask for; and seeing how impossible was the performance, I am astonished at their modesty.” “And what do you mean to do, sir?” asked Tom, bluntly. “I have been thinking of two courses: my first thought was to make a formal conveyance of the mine to you and your sister, for your joint use and benefit. This done, and I standing aloof from all possible interest in it, I bethought me of a loan to be raised on the security of the property,--not publicly, not generally, but amongst your father's friends and well-wishers,--beginning with the neighborhood where he has lived so long, and around which he has sowed the seeds of such benefits as needs must ripen in gratitude.” “Indulge no delusions on that score, sir. There is not a man in the county, except old Mills the vicar, perhaps, has a good word for us; and as to going to one of them for assistance, I 'd rather sweep a crossing. You shake your head, Sir Brook, and you smile at my passionate denunciation; but it is true, every word of it. I heard, in the few hours I spent there, scores of stories of my poor father's eccentricity,--his forgetfulness, his absence, and what not,--but never a syllable of his noble liberality, his self-sacrifice, or his gentleness.”