He did not find the words easy of utterance—far from it; but the effort they cost him was slight and trivial compared with that which poor Jack found himself called upon to make. For a moment, indeed, he was silent, his heart rebelling against the task assigned to him. To carry his message to her! Then his nobler self answered to the call, and he spoke. His words, “Yes, I’ll tell her,” came, it is true, a little late, in a voice a trifle thick, and were uttered with a coldness which Lindo would have remarked had he not been agitated himself. But they came—at a price. The Victoria Cross for moral courage can seldom be gained by a single act of valor. Many a one has failed to gain it who had strength enough for the first blow. “Yes, I will tell her,” Jack repeated a few seconds later, folding up the letter and laying it on the table, but so contriving that his face was hidden from his friend. “To-morrow will do, I suppose?” he added, the faintest tinge of irony in his tone. He may be pardoned if he thought the apology he was asked to carry came a little late. “Oh, yes, to-morrow will do,” Lindo answered with a start; he had fallen into a reverie, but now roused himself. “I am afraid you are very tired, old fellow,” he continued, looking gratefully at his friend. “A friend in need is a friend indeed, you know. I cannot tell you”—with a sigh—“how very good I think it was of you to come to me.” “Nonsense!” Jack said briskly. “It was all in the day’s work. As it is, I have done nothing. And that reminds me,” he continued, facing his companion with a smile—“what of the trouble between my uncle and you? About the sheep, I mean. You have put it in some lawyer’s hands, have you not?” “Yes,” Lindo answered reluctantly. “Quite right, too,” said the barrister. “Who are they?” “Turner & Grey, of Birmingham.” “Well, I will write,” Jack answered, “if you will let me, and tell them to let the matter stand for the present. I think that will be the best course. Bonamy won’t object.” “But he has issued a writ,” the rector explained. A writ seemed to him a formidable engine. As well dally before the mouth of a cannon. But Jack knew better. The law’s delays were familiar to him. He was aware of many a pleasant little halting-place between writ and judgment. “Never mind about that,” he answered, with a confident laugh. “Shall I settle it for you? I shall know better, perhaps, what to say to them.” The rector assented gladly; adding: “Here is their address.” It was stuck in the corner of a picture hanging over the fireplace. He took it down as he spoke and gave it to Jack, who put it carelessly into his pocket, and, seizing his hat, said he must go at once—that it was close on twelve. The rector would have repeated his thanks; but Jack would not stop to hear them, and in a moment was gone.