“That means a flat no, then,” the banker said, and with a heavy sigh he slowly stood up. “Well, I've plead _his_ case as well as I know how, but I hain't yet touched on _mine_. Miss Margaret, you could do me a big, lasting favor if you'd let this thing go through. I'm a plain man. Folks hain't never said I was much of a hand to show affection, and they are right, I reckon; but the way matters stand now is getting me down, and if you don't extend a helping hand I'm afraid I'll feel bad the rest of my life. It ain't just _Fred_ that's concerned--it's me--_me!_ As long as a father can make himself believe he is treating his son justly, he can hold his head up and meet the eye of the world; but, if the truth must be told, I reckon I didn't give Fred a good enough show. I driv' him off, with threats of the law, and away off in a strange land, under a new name, he forged ahead. He made friends by the stack, and the old man--his partner that I told you about--loves him like he was his own; in fact, he calls him his '_adopted son_.' Think of that! The only child the Lord ever give me is now claimed by a blamed old cuss that understood him better than I ever did! He has willed him all he's got, and he's got plenty, too--a sight more than I'll ever have if I keep on till the end of the chapter. I want to hold my own, Miss Margaret. I hain't never been clean beat yet, and this, somehow, would be the worst fall I ever had. I just can't stomach the idea! I want my boy to love _me_, and lean on _me,_ and not on a fat, pudgy old idiot that never had a thing to do with his baby days. I want that worse than I ever wanted anything, and I don't see how I'm going to get it if you don't help a little. If your pride won't let you do it for _him_, maybe it will for an old chap like me, that is begging for one more throw of the dice. I simply want him back, and he won't come unless you will let bygones be bygones.” He paused. Something very much like strong emotion was in his whole dejected attitude as he stood bowed before her. She started to speak, but stopped, clasping her delicate hands undecidedly in front of her. She stood silent for a moment, and then she said, softly: “I see; it is hard on you. It is a pity you have to suffer on account of it.” “Promise me this, Miss Margaret.” Old Walton leaned forward eagerly. “Promise that you will think it over for a day or so. It ain't a thing, anyway, to be decided in a second, like buying a hat or a pair of gloves of such and such a color or material. If you have to go plumb against the boy, do it after mature deliberation. Won't you study over it a day or two?” “Yes, I can promise that,” Margaret consented. “I'll stop in at the bank and see you soon.” “Well, that's all a body _could_ ask,” Walton said, gratefully; and, bowing low, he trudged across the grass to his horse and buggy. CHAPTER XIX