“I can’t help it,” says Mr. Gower, with a groan.

“What’s the matter with you?” demands his aunt.

“Ah, no matter—­no matter!”

“In debt, as usual, I suppose?” grimly.

“Deeply!” with increasing gloom.

“And you expect me to help you, I suppose?”

“No.  I expect nothing.  I hope only for one thing,” says Mr. Gower, fixing a haggard gaze upon her face.

“If it’s a cheque from me,” says his aunt sternly, “you will hope a long time.”

“I don’t think so,” sadly.

“What do you mean, sir?  Do you think I am a weathercock, to change with every wind?  You have had your last cheque from me, Randal.  Be sure of that.  I shall no longer pander to your wicked ways, your terrible extravagances.”

“I didn’t mean that.  I wished only to convey to you the thought that soon there would be no room for hope left to me.”

“Well, there isn’t now!” says Miss Gower cheerfully, “if you are alluding to me.  Row on, Randal; there isn’t anything like as good a view from this spot as there is from the lower end!”

“I like the middle of the lake,” says Mr. Gower, in a sepulchral tone.  As he speaks he draws in both oars, and leaning his arms upon them, looks straight across into her face.  It is now neck or nothing, he tells himself, and decides at once it shall be neck.  “Aunt,” says he, in a low, soft, sad tone—­a tone that reduces itself into a freezing whisper, "Are you prepared to die?"

“What!” says Miss Gower.  She drops the ropes she has been holding and glares at him.  “Collect yourself, boy!”

“I entreat you not to waste time over trivialities!  I entreat you to answer me, and quickly.”

Mr. Gower’s voice is now apparently coming from his boots.

“Good gracious, Randal, what do you mean?” cries the spinster, turning very yellow.  “Prepared to die! Why ask me such a question?”

“Because, dear aunt, your time has come!”

“Randal!” says Miss Gower, trying to rise, “pull me ashore.  Do you hear me, sir?  Pull me ashore at once.  Cease your levity.”

“Sit down,” says her nephew sadly.  “Pray sit down.  It comes easier sitting than any other way, I have been told.”

“What comes?” Miss Gower casts a wild glance round her.  They are far from the shore, and, indeed, even if they had been nearer to it, no help could reach her, as there is not a soul to be seen, and from where they now are not a glimpse of the house is to be had.  “Randal, would you murder me?” cries she.

“Oh, dear aunt, what a question!” says Mr. Gower with deep reproach.  “No, far from that.  Learn that I, too, am resolved to die!”

“Oh, heavens!” cries Miss Gower, clinging to the sides of the boat.  “What brought me out to-day?  And to think insanity should break out, in our family here, for the first time!  Unhappy youth, bethink yourself!  Would you have my death upon your soul?”