"Yes," said Geoffrey, "we will; but, Uncle Paul, Mrs Mullion, let me say a few words first. I had a father who gave me all my early education--all that was not given by my tender, gentle mother. My father in his lessons to me taught me what his true, sterling character had been through life. `Jeff, my boy,' he has said to me a thousand times, `when once you have put your hand to a task, keep to it till you have mastered it.'" "Yes, yes, you learned your lesson well," said the old man, nodding his head approvingly, for Geoffrey had laid his cigar on the edge of the table, where it burned slowly beneath its pearly ash, and had paused, as if waiting for him to speak. "Another thing my father said, too, as many times perhaps, Mr Paul, was this: `Come rich, Jeff, come poor, strive to be a gentleman through life, and never let it be said of you that you told a lie.'" "Good, yes--good advice, Geoffrey Trethick," said the old man, smiling. "If I had had a son, I would have said the same." "Then, look here, Mr Paul," cried Geoffrey, excitedly, as he rose up and towered in his manly strength above the little old yellow nabob. "I tell you this: I never knowingly yet told a lie, and, God helping me, I never will!" There was a strange silence in that room as the young man's distinct, loud voice ceased for a few moments, and mother and uncle sat eagerly waiting for his next utterances. "Now that I have said that," continued Geoffrey, "let me look you both in the face, and tell you that you have done me a cruel wrong." "A cruel wrong?" began the old man, hotly. "Yes," continued Geoffrey, "a cruel wrong. Poor Madge has spoken out at last; and so will I." "This is a cruel--" "Wrong, Mr Paul," said Geoffrey, smiling, and laying his hand upon the old man's shoulder. "Uncle Paul, I like you,--I always have liked you; but you were unjust to me when you asked me to bear John Tregenna's sin." The old man started back from him, his neck over the back of his chair, his withered throat stretched, and his lips parted, as he stared up in Geoffrey's face. Then, as the whole truth seemed to come home to him, he caught at Geoffrey's hand, and, trembling, and in broken accents, began to plead for pardon. "My poor boy--my brave boy--my poor boy!" was all, though, that he could stammer; and, in his abject misery, he tried to struggle from his chair upon his knees: but, as soon as Geoffrey realised the truth, he smilingly held the old man in his place. "No, no, Uncle Paul," he said. "Stand up, old fellow, and give me your hand, like the true, chivalrous old gentleman you are, and let us understand each other once and for all. Come, you forgive me now?" "Forgive you?" faltered the old man. "My boy, can you forgive me?" "Your hand too, Mrs Mullion. Do you doubt my word?" "Oh, no, no!" sobbed the poor woman, sadly, for matters had not turned out as she wished, and her tears were falling fast, when Geoffrey exclaimed sharply, and held out his hand,--