you must have the money. Oh, my boy, my
boy!" She covered her face with her hands
and sobbed.

George Dallas looked at her irresolutely,
then came quickly towards her, and leaned
over her, as she sat. "Mother," he said,
in low hurried tones, "mother, trust me once
more, little as I deserve it. Try to help me
in this matter; it is life or death to me; and
I will try and do better. I am sick of it all;
sick of my own weakness above and more than
all. But I am irretrievably ruined if I don't
get this money. I am quite in Routh's
power, and—and—I want to get out of it."

She looked up curiously at him. Something
in the way he said those words at once alarmed
and reassured her.

"In this man's power, George? How? To
what extent?"

"I cannot tell you, mother; you would not
understand. Don't frighten yourself about it.
It is nothing that money cannot settle. I have
had a lesson now. You shake your head—well,
I know I have had many before, but I will
learn from this one."

"I have not the money, George," his mother
repeated, "and I cannot possibly procure it
for a little time. You must not stay here."

"I know, I know," he retorted. "You need
not re–echo Mr. Carruthers's interdict. I am
going; but surely you can give me a little now;
the price of one of these things would go a long
way with me." As he spoke, he touched, but
with no rough hand, her earrings and the bracelet
on her right arm.

"They are family jewels, or you should have
them, George," Mrs. Carruthers said, in a sad
voice. "Give me time, and I will make up
the money for you. I have a little I can give
you." She stood up and looked fixedly at him,
her hands resting on his shoulder. The tall
and powerful young man, with his haggard
anxious face, his hardened look, his shabby
careless dress, offered a strange contrast to the
woman, whose beauty time had dealt with so
lightly, and fortune so generously. Mrs. Carruthers
had been a mere girl when her son was born,
and probably had not been nearly so beautiful
as now, when the calm dignity of position and
the power of wealth lent all their attractions to
her perfect face and form.

The habitual seriousness of her expression
was but a charm the more, and in moments of
excited feeling like the present she regained the
lustrous brilliancy of the past. Searchingly,
fondly, she gazed into her son's face, as though
reading it for traces of the truth of his
promises, seeing in it but too surely indications of
the weary, unsatisfying life he had led, the
life which had brought disappointment to all
her dearest maternal hopes. Steadily and
tenderly he looked at her, a world of regret in his
eyes. While they stood thus in brief silence,
Mrs. Brookes came in hurriedly.

"You are wanted," she said. "Master is
asking for you; he has sent Miss Clare to
your room to see if you are ill."

"I must go, my boy," said Mrs. Carruthers,
as she hastily kissed him; "and you must not
stay. Come with me, Ellen, for a moment.
Wait here, George, for what I promised you,
and don't travel back to town without an
overcoat." Then she left the room at once, the
housekeeper with her. George stood where
she had left him, looking towards the door.

"My dear practical mother," he said to
himself, "she is as kind and as sensible as ever.
Wretched about me, but remembering to desire
me to buy a coat! I know she will get me the
money somehow, and this shall be the last scrape
I will get into. It's no use being melodramatic,
especially when one is all alone, but I here make
a solemn promise to myself that I will keep my
promise to her."

He sat down by the fire, and remained still
and thoughtful. In a few minutes Mrs.
Brookes returned.

"Here's the money, Master George," she
said. "I was to give it to you with my
mistress's love, and she will write to
you to London."

He took the folded paper from her hand. It
was a ten–pound note.

"Thank you, nurse," he said; "and now I
will go. I would like to stay and have a talk
with you; but I had better get away, lest any
annoyance should come to my mother through
my staying. I'll see you when you come up to
town to the fine house in Mesopotamia. Eh?"

"Lord, Master George, how you do go on!
Why, Mr. Carruthers's new house is the far side
of the Park."

"I know, nurse. It's all the same thing. No.
No more wine, thank you, and nothing to eat.
Good–bye.—How am I to get out, though? Not
through the window, and up the area wall, am I?"

"I'll show you, Master George. This way."

George Dallas buttoned his coat tightly across
his breast, carefully put on his gloves, and took
up his hat. As he followed Mrs. Brookes
through the long stone passages of the basement
story, he looked curiously about him,
noting the details of comfort and convenience.
"How much better off than I are my mother's
servants!" he thought, idly rather than bitterly.
When they reached a door which opened upon
the court–yard, Mrs. Brookes bade him farewell,
not without emotion.

"The great gates are open," she said. "All
the servants are either in the hall, or the servants'
hall. None of the carriages have been called
yet. You can slip past without being seen; or
if any one sees you, they'll think you belong to
the place."

"A serious mistake, dear old woman," said
George, with a half smile, as he once more shook
her hand, and stepped out into the cold and
darkness. A bitter sense of desolation came
over him as the door closed behind him. The
court–yard was empty, except of carriages, and
he crossed it quickly, and went through the
great gates into the avenue, which swept round
the terrace. Following it, he found himself
brought again by a different route in front of