Again the old gentleman wavered; and it was not until he had looked Marcus Wilkeson straight in the eye, that he answered, striking the arm of the chair with his thin white hand: 

“Not one cent!”

The tumid cheeks assumed a sicklier white, and the small, offensive eyes sparkled with a fiercer fury, as the son replied: 

“Very well, sir.  Be as stingy as you please.  Take the advice of your new friend here, and cut off my beggarly monthly allowance, too.  But remember, I must have money, and I will have it!”

Had Marcus Wilkeson not been present, the father might have been brought to terms by this vague but dreadful threat.  But now he shook his head, as an intimation that nothing could move him.

“You have taken your own course, sir,” continued the son, through his closed teeth.  “I shall take mine.  Don’t forget my last words.  As for you, sir,” turning to Marcus Wilkeson, “we shall probably meet again.”

Marcus urbanely responded that nothing could give him greater pleasure.  The son, darting a last malignant look at his father, whose face was happily averted, strode out of the room, slamming the door, and afterward the street door, with increased emphasis.

When he had gone, the father said to his visitor, feebly: 

“Have I done right?”

“Precisely.  Your conduct was firm, prudent, and will have a good effect.”

“I hope so—­I hope so.  But don’t you think, now, I was a little too severe—­to begin with, I mean?  I fear that my son will be driven to crime; and that would kill me.”

“I regard his threats as only empty words,” replied Marcus.  He has found them useful heretofore, and he tries them now.  Having learned that they do not longer frighten you, he will never employ them again.  That is one point gained.  If he is really bad enough to commit a crime for money, your misjudged kindness will not prevent him, but will rather encourage his evil disposition.”

“There is truth in what you say,” replied the old gentleman, faintly; “but I—­I—­fear.”

The protracted conversation, and the suppressed agony of the past few minutes, were too much for the old gentleman to bear on his first day of convalescence.  He suddenly turned very pale, and his head drooped.  Marcus threw open a window, and held the cordial to his lips.  As Marcus was applying this restorative, without any perceptible benefit, the door opened, and Mrs. Frump ran in, red in the face, and quite out of breath.

“Excuse me, sir.  I am Mrs. Frump, Mr. Van Quintem’s niece.”

“I am Mr. Wilkeson, a friend of Mr. Van Quintem,” said Marcus, hastily introducing himself; “and I am glad you are come.”

“Yes, I see.  Fainted away.  Revive in a moment.  Fresh air.  Cordial, Quite right.  Now a little water on his forehead.”

Mrs. Frump made her sentences short, to accommodate her breath.

As she passed a cool sponge across the patient’s brow, she said: