Suddenly his face lit up more and more, and he turned to Luke.

"You shall move the steps for me," he said. "Just there, under that large bunch."

Luke obeyed, wondering, and the old man then handed him the basket and scissors.

"You shall cut that bunch for me, Mr Ross, please."

"Really, sir,--" began Luke.

"Please oblige me, Mr Ross. You saw how I did it. I will hold the steps; you shall not fall."

Luke smiled as he thought of the risk; and then, to humour the old man, he mounted, the Rector watching him intently.

"You will be very careful, Mr Ross," he said. "Let the bunch glide, as it were, into the leaves. A little more to the right. Now then cut-- cut!"

The scissors gave a sharp snip, and the second bunch reclined in its green bed.

"I didn't think of it before," said the Rector, whose face glowed with pleasure as Luke descended. "They are not quite so fine as this bunch,"

he said, apologetically.

"Really, I hardly see any difference, Mr Mallow," replied Luke.

"Very little, Luke Ross. Will you carry them home with you? Your father will be pleased with them, I know. He likes my grapes, Mr Ross."

Luke's answer was to grasp the old man's hand, which he retained as he spoke.

"I thank you, Mr Mallow," he said. "It was thoughtful and kind of you to the poor old man. Now, may I say something to you? Forgive me if I bring up painful things."

"It is something about Julia, or about my son," gasped the Rector.

"Tell me quickly--tell me the worst."

"Be calm, Mr Mallow," said Luke, quietly; "there is nothing wrong."

"Thank G.o.d!" said the old man, fervently, with a sigh that was almost a groan. "Thank G.o.d!"

"After some difficulty and long trying, I obtained a permit for two visitors to see Cyril Mallow at Peatmoor, and that permit I have placed this afternoon in Mrs Cyril's hands."

"Permission--to see my son?" faltered the old man.

"Yes, sir. I thought that you would accompany your daughter-in-law to see him."

The old man stood with his hands clasped, gazing sadly in his visitor's face, but without speaking.

At last he shook his head sadly.

"No," he said, "I cannot go. I should dread the meeting. I think it would kill me, Luke. But if it were my duty, I would go. I have one here, though--one I cannot neglect. It would take three or four days, at least, to go and return. I could not leave my dear wife as many hours, or I should return and find her dead. Go for me, Luke. Take that poor, suffering woman, and let her see him once again."

"I--I take her?" cried Luke, starting. "Mr Mallow!"

"It would be an act of gentle charity," said the old man, "and I would bless you for your love. But I must go now, Luke Ross," he said, half vacantly. "My head is very weak now. I am old, and I have had much trouble. You will give your father the grapes--with my love?"

He took up his own basket, and the sight of the soft violet fruit appeared to soothe him, for he began to smile pleasantly, seeming quite to have forgotten the allusion to the permit; and in this spirit he walked with Luke to the gate, shook hands almost affectionately, and they parted.

PART THREE, CHAPTER TWELVE.

A LONG SLEEP.

If the Rector was placid and calm once more, so was not Luke Ross, whose pulses still throbbed more heavily than was their wont, as he thought of the old man's words, and then, as it were to weave itself in with them, came the recollection of that which his father had said--that life was very short, and begging him to do all the good he could.

"It is impossible," he cried at last. "I, too, could not bear it."

He strode onward, walking more rapidly, for a strange feeling of dread oppressed him, and as he seemed to keep fighting against the possibility of his acceding to the Rector's request, the words of the weak old man he had left asleep kept recurring, bidding him try to do all the good he could, for life was so very short.

"But he will forget by to-morrow that he asked me," said Luke, half aloud. "It is a mad idea, and I could not go."

As he reached the town, first one and then another familiar face appeared, and more than one of their owners seemed disposed to stop and speak, but Luke was too preoccupied, and he hurried on to his old home to find the housekeeper waiting for him at the door.

"How is he?" he cried, quickly, for his conscience smote him for being so long away.

"Sleeping as gently as a baby, sir," the woman said. "Oh, what lovely grapes, sir. He will be so pleased with them. The doctor came in soon after you had gone out, and went and looked at him, but he said he was not to be disturbed on any account, so that he has not had his beef tea."

Luke found the table spread for his benefit as he crossed the room to go gently up-stairs and bend over the bed, where, as the housekeeper had said, old Michael Ross was sleeping as calmly as an infant. So Luke stole down once more to partake of the substantial meal prepared on his special behalf, the housekeeper refusing to seat herself at the same table with him.

"No, sir," she said, stiffly, "I know my duty to my betters too well for that. Michael Ross is an old neighbour, and knew my master well before he died, poor man."

"Do you think one of us ought to sit with my father?" said Luke, quickly, as the woman's last words seemed to raise up a fresh train of troublous thought.

"I'll go and sit with him, sir, if you like," said the woman, "but both doors are open, and the ceiling is so thin that you can almost hear him breathe."

"Perhaps it is not necessary," said Luke, quickly. "You'll excuse my being anxious."

"As if I didn't respect you the more for it, Mr Luke, sir," said the woman, warmly; "but as I was saying, I always had my meals with your dear father, sir."

"Then why not sit down here?"

"Because things have changed, sir. We all know how you have got to be a famous man, and are rising still, sir; and we are proud of what you've done, and so I'd rather wait upon you, if you please."

Luke partook of his meal mechanically, listening the while for any sound from up-stairs, and twice over he rose and went up to find that the sleep was perfectly undisturbed.

Then he reseated himself, and went on dreamily, thinking of the old man's words.

"Life is very short, my boy. Do all the good you can."

Over and over again he kept on repeating old Michael's words, when they were not, with endless variations, repeating themselves.

Then came the possibility of his going down with Sage to see Cyril Mallow.