“I daresay that is true enough,” said Frank; “but it seems that this is more than stories. They say he lent money to everybody, and never took any note or acknowledgment: and the people have never paid. They certainly should have paid; especially as, having no acknowledgment, it became, don’t you see, a debt of honour. There is something which I don’t quite understand about some Statute of Limitations that makes it impossible to recover money after a certain number of years. I don’t know much about the law myself; but my mother’s a great hand. Do you know anything about the Statute of Limitations, you that are going to be a W. S.?” “Who said I was going to be a W. S.?” cried Rodie, red with indignation. “Nothing of the sort: I’m going into the army. It’s John that is the W. S.; but I think I’ve heard of it,” he added sulkily, after a moment, “sometimes he tells us about his cases. If you’re not asked for the money for so many years, it’s considered that you have been forgiven: but on the other hand if they asked for it, you’re still bound; I’ve heard something like that from John.” “Oh, then I suppose,” cried Frank, “it is rather urgent, and we ought to ask for it to preserve our claim.” There is a universal sentiment in the human heart against a creditor wishing to recover, and in favour of the debtor who is instinctively understood not to be able to pay. Especially strong is this sentiment in the bosom of the young; to lend is a fine thing, but to ask back again is always a mean proceeding. Rodie instinctively hardened himself against the legal rights of his friend. “There’s men,” he said, “I’ve heard, that are constantly dunning you to pay them. I would rather never borrow a penny if it was to be like that.” “I would rather never borrow a penny whether it was like that or not,” said the virtuous Frank. “Oh, it’s easy speaking for you, that have more money than you know what to do with; but if you think of my commission, and where the money is to come from.” “Most likely,” said Frank, without any special meaning, merely as a conjecture, “if my Uncle Anderson had been living, your father would have got it from him.” Rodie grew redder than ever under this suggestion. “It might be so,” he said; “but I hope you are not meaning that my father would not have paid the money back, whoever it came from: for if that is what you are meaning, you’re a----” “I was meaning nothing of the kind,” cried Frank in a hurry; for to have the word _leear_, even though it is a mild version of liar, flung in his face by Rodie Buchanan, the brother of Elsie, was a thing he did not at all desire. “I hope I know better: but I wish I could speak to your father about my affairs, for I know that he was Uncle Anderson’s great friend, and he is sure to know.” “To know what?” said Rodie. “Oh, to know the people that borrowed from my uncle, and did not pay. I hope you don’t think I ought to let them off when they have behaved like that.”