Waife had taken the paper, glanced at its contents, dropped it in confusion, amaze. Those hundreds lent, swelled into all those thousands returned! And all methodically computed--tersely--arithmetically-down to fractions. So that every farthing seemed, and indeed was, his lawful due. And that sum invested in an annuity of L500 a year--income which, to poor Gentleman Waife, seemed a prince's revenue! "It is quite a business-like computation, I tell you, sir; all done by a lawyer. It is indeed," cried Lionel, dismayed at Waife's look and gesture. "Compound interest will run up to what seems a large amount at first; every child knows that. You can't deny Cocker and calculating tables, and that sort of thing. William Losely, you cannot leave an eternal load of disgrace on the head of Charles Haughton's son." "Poor Charlie Haughton," murmured Waife. "And I was feeling bitter against his memory--bitter against his son. How Heaven loves to teach us the injustice that dwells in anger! But--but--this cannot be. I thank Mr. Darrell humbly--I cannot take his money." "It is not his money--it is mine; he only advances it to me. It costs him really nothing, for he deducts the L500 a year from the allowance he makes me. And I don't want such an absurd allowance as I had before going out of the Guards into the line--I mean to be a soldier in good earnest. Too much pocket-money spoils a soldier--only gets one into scrapes. Alban Morley says the same. Darrell, too, says, 'Right; no gold could buy a luxury--like the payment of a father's debt!' You cannot grudge me that luxury--you dare not--why? because you are an honest Man." "Softly, softly, softly," said Waife. "Let me look at you. Don't talk of money now--don't let us think of money! What a look of your father! 'Tis he, 'tis he whom I see before me. Charlie's sweet bright playful eyes--that might have turned aside from the path of duty--a sheriff's officer! Ah! and Charlie's happy laugh, too, at the slightest joke! But THIS is not Charlie's--it is all your own (touching, with gentle finger, Lionel's broad truthful brow). Poor Charlie, he was grieved--you are right--I remember." "Sir," said Lionel, who was now on one knee by Waife's chair--"sir, I have never yet asked man for his blessing--not even Guy Darrell. Will you put your hand on my head? and oh! that in the mystic world beyond us, some angel may tell Charles Haughton that William Losely has blessed his son!" Solemnly, but with profound humility--one hand on the Bible beside him, one on the young soldier's bended head--William Losely blessed Charles Haughton's son--and; having done so, involuntarily his arms opened, and blessing was followed by embrace. CHAPTER III. NOTHING SO OBSTINATE AS A YOUNG MAN'S HOPE; NOTHING SO ELOQUENT AS A LOVER'S TONGUE.