Mr. Barry comes back from the window. ‘It is such a relief,’ says he quickly, and with extraordinary honesty. ‘It will be a weight off my mind. It is such a prospect as I could never have dreamed of for her. They tell me’—absently—‘that she is very pretty; her mother, at that age——’ He does not continue his sentence. A heavy sigh escapes him. ‘I have had great trouble lately,’ says he, after a minute or two, ‘and this, coming unexpectedly, has unnerved me.’ ‘There shall be no more trouble that I can prevent,’ says Crosby gently, calmly, yet with strength. ‘You must think of me from to-day as your son.’ He pauses. ‘By-the-by, I hear that there is some little difficulty about Carew’s continuing his profession. That would be a pity, considering how far he has gone. We must not allow that.’ ‘There is no “we” in it,’ says Mr. Barry, his thin white face now whiter. ‘I can do nothing in the matter. As you have heard so much, you, of course, know that the money that I had laid by for Carew’s start in life has been lost.’ ‘That failure of a bank? Yes; but——’ ‘You are giving a great deal to my daughter, Crosby,’ says the Rector quickly; ‘I cannot allow you to give to——’ ‘My brother, sir. Come, Mr. Barry, do not make me feel I am kept at arm’s length by Susan’s people. If a man can’t help his own brother, who can he help? And, after all, if you come to think of it, have you any right to prevent my helping him—to check his career like this? Besides’—laughing—‘you may as well give in, as I am going to see him through, whether you will or not. If I didn’t, there would be bad times for me with Susan.’ There is something about him—something in his happy, strong, kindly manner, that precludes the idea of offence of any sort; and Mr. Barry, after a struggle with his conscience, gives in. That suggestion about his having any right to deny the boy his profession had touched him. ‘Well, that’s settled,’ says Crosby comfortably. And it gives an idea of the charm of his character that, as he says it, no feeling of chagrin, of smallness, enters into the soul of the man he has benefited. Mr. Barry, indeed, smiles a happier smile than his worn face has known for many a day. ‘God bless you, Crosby!’ says he. And then, pausing and colouring—the slow and painful colour of age, ‘God bless you, George! It is useless to speak. I cannot say what I want to say. But this’—his tone, nervous and awkward always, now almost stammers—‘this I must say, that Susan ought to be a happy woman.’ ‘Oh, as to that,’ says Crosby, laughing again, a little nervously himself now, as he sees the other’s suppressed emotion, ‘I hope so. I’ll see to it, you know. But there’s one thing sure—that I’m going to be a happy man.’ He looks towards the window. ‘I think she is waiting for me in the garden,’ says he.