He explained hurriedly that it was mere chance which had brought him here, and with great embarrassment, that he had tried every means of discovering his father’s whereabouts for years, but in vain. “That is strange,” Mr Burton said. He had, in the meantime, reassured himself by seeing that the embarrassment was fully more great on the part of Gervase than on his own. “That is strange: for I have attempted no concealment. I have been living here, as you may have discovered, ever since I--left London.” “Yes,” said Gervase, “we have heard. I saw you last night, sir, coming home--though too far off to be more than startled by your walk and figure, which I felt I recognised--but Madeline met you in the road.” “Madeline! To be sure, you are married! I have to congratulate you, Gervase.” “And I,” said the young man, “have to thank you, father. But for the money you sent me so generously--so opportunely----” “The money I sent you!” “That ten thousand pounds----” “Ten thousand pounds! You must be dreaming. I have not ten thousand pence--more than I require for myself.” “Then it was not from you?” “Certainly it was not from me. I thought you provided for with the money you brought from the West Indies--which, as I saw by the papers, you threw away. Certainly after that exploit, if I had been able to spare ten thousand pounds, I should not have sent it to you to make ducks and drakes of.” Mr Burton was too glad of the opportunity to regain a position more befitting their relationship, and Gervase was too much lost in the confusion of his thoughts to say a word; but the prodigal father was suddenly brought down from this brief superiority by the sudden appearance at the door of a pretty young woman, half lady, half housekeeper, who, calling to him as Mr Burton, begged to know whether the meat was coming by the coach, or if the butcher----. She paused when she saw the stranger, and said, “Oh, I beg your pardon! I didn’t see as any one was with you,”--retreating again, though not without a lingering look of curiosity. Again the flush of an unbecoming embarrassment passed over Mr Burton’s face. “Come here, Mary,” he said. “Gervase, this is my wife. We--we--were married some years before I--left.” She rubbed her hand surreptitiously with her apron before she held it out. “Will--the gentleman stay to dinner, Mr Burton?” she said. The eyes of the father and son met. In the one there was an appeal for forbearance, an apology, an entreaty. Do not disturb my peace, they seemed to say. In the other nothing but confusion and bewilderment. Gervase said hastily, “We are going away this morning.” He saw the look of relief in Mr Burton’s eyes with a sympathetic sensation. He, himself, wanted nothing so much as to get away.