"Do you think I'm mad?" cried the old man shrilly. "Why should I help him? What is he to me? I have gathered all my wealth by years of self-denial. I want to enjoy it in my next existence, not squander it in this by helping a pauper." "And yet you talk of the golden hours of youth," she replied bitterly. "It's easy saying, but hard doing. What is a hundred pounds to you?--a drop in the ocean. What is it to him?--everything." "I can't part with my money," he said doggedly, turning his face away. Her voice took a tender tone as she pleaded for her son. "He has no claim upon you, I know, but think of his youth, his talents, wasted in this dull village. You say you will remember in your next body what you have done in this; for years you have never done a kind action to a human being, do one now by helping this lad, and your next existence will be none the worse for having helped an unknown man." The old man made no reply, but was clearly moved by her argument. "And again," said Patience, still in the same anxious voice, "with your help he will make a position in the world. What position will you occupy? with all your money, you may be born a prince or a ploughboy--you do not know--but in whatever station you are born, his influence, his friendship, may be a help to you, and it will be all the more precious when you know it is your work." The woman's voice died away in a soft manner, and she anxiously watched the old man's wrinkled face to see if he would do what she asked. Evidently her words appealed either to his selfishness or good nature, for, turning towards her, a smile spread over his crabbed face. "I'll do it, Patience," he said quickly. "I'll do it--perhaps he will be of help to me in my next life--get me my cheque book, and I'll write a cheque for fifty pounds--no more--no more. I can't afford it." "Fifty is no use--say one hundred," she urged eagerly. "Well, well! one hundred," he said peevishly, "it's a large sum, still it may do good to me. I'll write a letter with it, and tell him he must do what I ask in my next life. Will he do that?" "Yes! Yes!" she replied impatiently, in nowise affronted by his selfish motives. "He is not the man to forget a kind action." "You don't thank me," he said angrily, as she went over to the escritoire and got his cheque book. "Grasping! ungrateful!" "I'm not ungrateful," she retorted, bringing the pen and ink to him with the cheque book, and a block of blotting paper to write on, "but I do thank you. I was never one for lip service." "Bah! women are all alike," he said viciously, sitting up in bed, and seizing the pen. "Go and bring me some letter paper and an envelope." She did so, and returned to his bedside by the time he had written the cheque. "I've post-dated this cheque," he said cunningly, "because I won't send it to him till just before I die." "What do you mean by post-dated?"