"And yet," said he, "suppose the impossible, or at any rate the unlikely--say that he does come back. I know him well; he wouldn't be a drag or a burden to you. He'd only just like to see you. All he would ask would be to see his son sometimes! That would be enough for him. I was his chum, mind you, so I know. And if he was to come up here, as I have come, you could take him on, couldn't you, as you offer to take me?" He lent forward with sudden eagerness--his voice vibrated. "You could give him work, as you say you'll give me, couldn't you? No one'd know it was your father! No one would ever guess!" "No!" said Deverell, decidedly. "I'll give _you_ work, but my father I couldn't. I don't do things by halves: I'd treat my father _as_ my father, and damn the odds! He had pluck. I like to think how he was taken fighting! Whatever he did, he had grit, and I should be unworthy of him--no matter what he did--if I played the coward. It would be worse than cowardly to disown your father, whatever he had done, and I wouldn't disown mine--I'd sooner shoot myself! No, I'd take him in, and be a son to him for the rest of his days, that's what I'd do--that's what I _will_ do, if ever he gets out on ticket-of-leave, and comes to me!" The young man spoke with a feeling and intensity of which he had exhibited no signs before, leaning forward with his pipe between his fingers. The old man held his breath. "But it would be devilish awkward!" he added frankly. "People would remember what they've been good enough to forget; and everybody would know what now next to none know. In this country, thank God, the man is taken for what the man is worth--his father neither helps nor hinders him, when once he's gone. So I've managed to take my own part, and to get on well, thanks to my own luck. Yes, it would be devilish awkward, but I'd stand by him, before Heaven, I would!" The old man breathed hard. "I don't know how I've come to say so much to you, though you did know my father," added Deverell, with a sudden change of tone. "It isn't my way at all. I needn't tell you that from to-morrow forward you're the same as any other man to me. And if you ever go to see my father, you must not tell him all I have said to you about what, as you say, is never likely to happen. But you may tell him--you may tell him I am glad he was taken fighting!" The old man was once more quite calm. "I shall never see your father again. No more will you," he said slowly and solemnly; "for your father is dead! I promised him to find you out when my time was up, and to tell you. I have taken my own way of breaking the news to you. Forgive me, sir; but I couldn't resist just seeing, first of all, if it would cut you up very badly!"