Her very words seemed to say as much, and a strange thrill of triumph ran through him, as his eyes flashed, and for the moment he gloried in Cyril Mallow's disgrace.

He put away the thoughts, though, as a shame unto him, and folding his arms, he tried to master himself, to get his mental balance once again, for it was terribly disturbed by the strange access of emotion that he felt.

No, he said, when he went down to Kilby Farm on that never-to-be-forgotten day, Sage Portlock's life and his own, that had run on together for so long, had suddenly diverged, and they had been growing farther and farther apart ever since. He could not do this thing. It was impossible. It was a fresh act of cruelty on Sage's part, and come what might he would not degrade himself by fighting Cyril Mallow's cause, only afterwards, if he saved him, to reap the scoundrel's contempt.

"And I should deserve it," he said, half aloud.

"Yes, my boy," quavered old Michael, eagerly, as he caught his son's words and interpreted them to his own wishes. "G.o.d bless you, my boy, I knew you would, and she said she knew your good and generous heart, and that night by night she would teach her little ones to love and reverence your name, as they knelt down and prayed for G.o.d's blessing on him who saved their father from disgrace."

Luke Ross had opened his lips to stop his father's enthusiastic words, when his excited fancy pictured before him the soft, sweet, careworn face of Sage, his old love, bending over her innocent children, and teaching them, as she held their little clasped hands, to join his name in their trusting prayers, and he was conquered.

He dared not turn, for his face was convulsed, but, sinking sidewise into a chair, he rested his head upon his arm, and, hearing his father approach, motioned with the hand that was free, for him to keep back.

But the old man did not heed the sign. He came forward and laid his trembling hand upon his son's head.

"G.o.d bless you, my n.o.ble boy!" he said, fervently. "I knew you would."

Neither spoke then for a time, and when Luke raised his face once more, it was very pale, as if he were exhausted by the fight.

"Why, father," he said, cheerfully, "I'm behaving very badly to you.

You must want something to eat."

"No, my boy, I had something before I came in, for fear I should put you out. I don't want anything else."

"Till dinner-time, father," said Luke, smiling. "You and I will dine together and enjoy ourselves."

"But that poor woman, Luke?"

"We'll settle all that, father, after dinner. You shall give me the address, and I will either get a fresh solicitor to take the matter up or consult with theirs."

"But won't you fight for them, my boy?"

"To be sure I will, father, and do my best. But you don't understand these matters; an attorney has to draw up the brief."

"Of course, yes, of course, my boy."

"He brings it to me like this," said Luke, taking up the one he had been studying, "with all the princ.i.p.al points of the case neatly written out, as a sort of history, giving me the particulars necessary, so that I can master them in a quick, concise way."

"Yes, I see, my boy."

"A good lawyer will, in consultation with his client, clear away all superfluous matter, leaving nothing but what is necessary for the counsel to know."

"Yes, my sod, same as we first of all get rid of the refuse from a skin."

"Exactly, father," said Luke, smiling; "for clients often think matters of great moment that are worthless in a court of law."

"To be sure, yes; people will talk too much, my boy, I know," said the old man. "Why, Lukey, how I should like to hear you laying down the law in your wig and gown, my boy. How you must give it to 'em. I've read about you in the newspaper. Old Mr Mallow always brings one to me when he sees your name in, and shakes hands with me; and the tears come in the old fellow's eyes as he says to me with a sigh, 'Ah, Mr Ross, I wish I had had such a son.'"

"Why, father," said Luke, smiling, and seeming himself once more, "it is a good job that you don't live near me."

"Don't say that, my boy," said the old man, looking quite aghast. "I--I was thinking how nice it would be if I could get nearer to you."

"You'd spoil me with flattery," said Luke.

"Nay, nay, my boy," said the old man, seriously. "I never told you aught but the truth, and if I saw a fault I'd out with it directly."

"You always were the best of fathers," cried Luke, clasping the old man's hand.

"And--and I thank G.o.d, my boy, for His blessings on my old age,"

quavered the old man, with the weak tears in his eyes--"You were always the best of sons."

They sat hand clasped in hand for a few moments, and then the old man said softly--

"G.o.d will bless you for your goodness to that poor woman, my boy. I know it has been a hard fight, but you have won. It is heaping coals of fire on your enemy's head to do good to him, and maybe afterwards Cyril Mallow may repent. But, Luke, my boy," he cried, cheerfully, "I'm a stupid old man, only you must humour me."

"How, father?"

"Let me see you, just for a minute, in your wig and gown."

"Nonsense, father!"

"But I should like it, my boy." Luke rose to humour him, putting on wig and gown, and making the old man rub his hands with gratification as he gazed at the clear, intelligent face, with its deeply set, searching eyes.

"I'll be bound to say you puzzle and frighten some of them, my boy,"

said the old man. "And that's a brief, is it?"

"Yes, father," said Luke, smiling down on the old man, so full of childlike joy.

"Ah, yes," said the old man, putting on a pair of broad-rimmed spectacles, and then reading--"Jones _versus_ Lancaster."

"Hah! yes, nicely written; better than this fifty gs. What does that mean?"

"Fifty guineas, father."

"Indeed! And which was it, Jones or Lancaster, who stole the fifty guineas?"

"Neither, father. That is a common-pleas case of some importance, and the fifty guineas is my fee."

"Your fee?" cried the old man. "You don't mean to tell me that you get fifty-two pounds ten shillings, my boy, for your fee?"

"Yes, father, I do now," said his son, smiling.

"Bless my soul! Why, Luke, you ought to grow rich."

"Well, I suppose so, father; but I don't much care. I should like to grow famous, and make myself a name."

"And you will, my boy--you will," cried the old man, as Luke slipped off his legal uniform, and replaced the wig and gown.

"Time proves all things, father."