“My father is not to be trusted with the money of other people.”

“Why does your father hoard?  He cannot take his money with him when he is called away.  It must be all for you—­and is not then my money safe?”

“Leave it then in my charge, and it will be safe; but why need you go and risk your life upon the water, when you have such ample means?”

“Amine, ask not that question.  It is my duty as a son, and more I cannot tell, at least at present.”

“If it is your duty, I ask no more.  It was not womanish curiosity—­no, no—­it was a better feeling, I assure you, which prompted me to put the question.”

“And what was the better feeling, Amine?”

“I hardly know—­many good feelings perhaps mixed up together—­gratitude, esteem, respect, confidence, good-will.  Are not these sufficient?”

“Yes, indeed, Amine, and much to gain upon so short an acquaintance; but still I feel them all, and more, for you.  If, then, you feel so much for me, do oblige me by persuading your father to leave this lonely house this day, and take up his abode in mine.”

“And where do you intend to go yourself?”

“If your father will not admit me as a boarder for the short time I remain here, I will seek some shelter elsewhere; but if he will, I will indemnify him well—­that is, if you raise no objection to my being for a few days in the house?”

“Why should I?  Our habitation is no longer safe, and you offer us a shelter.  It were, indeed, unjust and most ungrateful to turn you out from beneath your own roof.”

“Then persuade him, Amine.  I will accept of nothing, but take it as a favour; for I should depart in sorrow if I saw you not in safety.—­Will you promise me?”

“I do promise to use my best endeavours—­nay, I may as well say at once it shall be so; for I know my influence.  Here is my hand upon it.  Will that content you?”

Philip took the small hand extended towards him.  His feelings overcame his discretion; he raised it to his lips.  He looked up to see if Amine was displeased, and found her dark eye fixed upon him, as once before when she admitted him, as if she would see his thoughts—­but the hand was not withdrawn.

“Indeed, Amine,” said Philip, kissing her hand once more, “you may confide in me.”

“I hope—­I think—­nay, I am sure I may,” at last replied she.

Philip released her hand.  Amine returned to the seat, and for some time remained silent and in a pensive attitude.  Philip also had his own thoughts, and did not open his lips.  At last Amine spoke.

“I think I have heard my father say that your mother was very poor—­a little deranged; and that there was a chamber in the house which had been shut up for years.”

“It was shut up till yesterday.”

“And there you found your money?  Did your mother not know of the money?”

“She did, for she spoke of it on her death-bed.”