"It's a way I have of speaking, father," he said. "Angry? With you?

Why my dear father, how could I be?"

"I--I don't know, my boy; but you promise me that you won't be angry?"

"Not a bit, father," cried Luke, with a.s.sumed cheeriness. "There, dad, I promise you I won't even be cross if you have been and married a young wife."

"Me? Married a young wife? Ha! ha! ha! That's very funny of you, my boy, very funny; but I haven't done that, Luke; I haven't done that. I married at eight-and-thirty, Luke, and once was enough. But you won't be angry?"

"No, no, not a bit. Now come, confess. What is it? I hope you haven't been investing in some shaky company."

"Oh no, my boy, not I. My bit of money has all been put in land, every hundred I could spare out of the business. But you said, my boy, you-- you wanted to help Mrs Cyril."

Luke's countenance changed again, but he nodded, and said hastily--

"Yes, father, of course. What can I do?"

"She--she said--"

"Who? Mrs Cyril Mallow?"

"Yes, my boy," said the old man, clinging to him. "Mrs Cyril, she--she asked me to come and see you."

"Sage--Mrs Mallow did?" cried Luke, sharply.

"You promised me, my boy, that you would not be cross with me," quavered the old man.

"No, no, father, I am not cross, but you startled me by your words. Did she tell you to come to me?"

"Yes, my boy, she--she's sadly altered, Luke, and so sweet and so humble. She wanted to go down on her knees to me, my boy, but I wouldn't let her."

"Tell me all, father," cried Luke. "Why are you keeping this back?"

"I--I daren't tell you, my boy, at first; I dare not, indeed."

"Tell me now, quickly."

"She told me to come to you, my boy; she said she had heard what a great counsel you had become."

Luke made an impatient movement.

"And she said that she had no one to appeal to in her sore distress."

"I am not her friend," said Luke, coldly.

"But you will be, my boy, when I tell you that, sobbing bitterly, she asked me to come to you, and if you had one spark of feeling for her left, to try and save her husband."

"She bade you come and say this, father?" cried Luke, with the beads of perspiration standing upon his brow.

"Yes, my son, for the sake of old times when you were girl and boy together."

Luke drew his hand away, and leaping from the edge of the table where he had been sitting, began to pace the room once more, while the old man sat rubbing his hands up and down his knees and gazing at him aghast.

Just then there was a sharp knock, and the boy entered.

"Engaged," said Luke, angrily. "I can see no one;" and the boy disappeared as if in alarm.

"I'm very, very sorry, my boy," faltered old Michael; "but--"

Luke stopped before him in his hurried walk.

"Tell me again, father. Did Sage Mallow say those words?"

"Yes, my boy, almost word for word. She said she was in despair, that money could not help her, she wanted some one to save her husband."

"Not to help her," said Luke, bitterly, "but to save that man."

"Yes, my boy. It's very shocking, for I'm afraid he's a dreadful scamp; but you know what women are."

"Yes," said Luke, with a laugh that startled his father, "I know what women are."

"The bigger scamp a man is the more they hold by him. Perhaps it's quite right, but it's very shocking."

"Help her to save him," muttered Luke. "I can't do it. I can--not do it."

The old man had now rolled his handkerchief up into a ball, and was pressing it and kneading it between his hands, as he gazed helplessly in his son's face.

"I think if she had seen you, and asked you herself, you would have done it, Luke, my boy. She said that she believed you could save her husband, and that if he was condemned--"

"I tell you if he were ten times condemned," cried Luke, "I could not do it, father. It is madness to ask me, of all men, to fight on his behalf."

"He--he did behave very badly to you, my boy. He's a bad one, I'm afraid; but he is that poor creatures husband."

"The only enemy I ever had, and you ask me to save him. It is not in human nature to do it. Why do you come and ask me such a thing?"

"You said you would not be angry with me, Luke; and she begged of me so hard, for the sake of the very old times, she said; and then she broke down, and said that if anything happened to her husband she should die."

Luke walked to the window, and stood gazing out at the narrow lane below, with a great struggle going on in his breast. In his heart there was still left so tender an affection for Sage that he was ready to save her. For her sake he had given no thought to another of her s.e.x, eschewing society, and devoting himself constantly to his profession; and now that his father had raised up before him, as it were, the face of the suffering wife, piteous and appealing, as she sent to him her message, asking, for the sake of old days, that he would come to her help, he felt that he must go--must devote his powers to saving the man she loved.

But it was impossible. He could not. He would not. He was but a man, he told himself, and this would be the work of an angel. No; he hated Cyril Mallow intensely, as the man who had robbed him of all he held dear, at the same time that he despised him in his honourable heart as a contemptible scoundrel who would sacrifice any one to gain his own ends.

Luke was not surprised to hear of Cyril being in fresh difficulties; he was ready, also, to believe that he was guilty, and he was asked to become this man's advocate, to bring to bear his twelve years' hard study and self-denial to try and save him from some richly-merited punishment. It was too much.

As he stood there, gazing out of the window, he seemed to see Cyril's mocking, handsome, triumphant face, as he made him also his slave--one of those whose duty it was to try and drag him from the slough as soon as ever he thought proper to step in--one of those who were to lie down, that he might plant his foot upon the bended neck, step out into safety, and leave the helper in the mire.

On the other hand, strive to exclude it as he would, there was Sage's appealing face, not the sweet girlish countenance he knew, but a face chastened by suffering, full of trust in him as in one who could and would help her in this supreme time of her trouble.

He fought against it, but in vain. He told himself that he should be mad to take up such a cause; that men would sneer and say evil things of him--that it was from no disinterested motives that he had done this thing; but there was ever the appealing face, the soft pleading eyes seeming to say to him, "I was weak and foolish, as well as cruel, in choosing as I did, but I humble myself now into the very dust, and ask you to forgive me and come to my help."