to come and visit his mother’s death-bed?  Could any advantage be meaner than the one which Ernest had taken?  Well, he would not go a penny beyond the eight or nine pounds which he had promised.  It was fortunate he had given a limit.  Why he, Theobald, had never been able to afford such a portmanteau in his life.  He was still using an old one which his father had turned over to him when he went up to Cambridge.  Besides, he had said clothes, not a portmanteau.

Ernest saw what was passing through his father’s mind, and felt that he ought to have prepared him in some way for what he now saw; but he had sent his telegram so immediately on receiving his father’s letter, and had followed it so promptly that it would not have been easy to do so even if he had thought of it.  He put out his hand and said laughingly, “Oh, it’s all paid for—­I am afraid you do not know that Mr Overton has handed over to me Aunt Alethea’s money.”

Theobald flushed scarlet.  “But why,” he said, and these were the first words that actually crossed his lips—­“if the money was not his to keep, did he not hand it over to my brother John and me?” He stammered a good deal and looked sheepish, but he got the words out.

“Because, my dear father,” said Ernest still laughing, “my aunt left it to him in trust for me, not in trust either for you or for my Uncle John—­and it has accumulated till it is now over 70,000 pounds.  But tell me how is my mother?”

“No, Ernest,” said Theobald excitedly, “the matter cannot rest here, I must know that this is all open and above board.”

This had the true Theobald ring and instantly brought the whole train of ideas which in Ernest’s mind were connected with his father.  The surroundings were the old familiar ones, but the surrounded were changed almost beyond power of recognition.  He turned sharply on Theobald in a moment.  I will not repeat the words he used, for they came out before he had time to consider them, and they might strike some of my readers as disrespectful; there were not many of them, but they were effectual.  Theobald said nothing, but turned almost of an ashen colour; he never again spoke to his son in such a way as to make it necessary for him to repeat what he had said on this occasion.  Ernest quickly recovered his temper and again asked after his mother.  Theobald was glad enough to take this opening now, and replied at once in the tone he would have assumed towards one he most particularly desired to conciliate, that she was getting rapidly worse in spite of all he had been able to do for her, and concluded by saying she had been the comfort and mainstay of his life for more than thirty years, but that he could not wish it prolonged.

The pair then went upstairs to Christina’s room, the one in which Ernest had been born.  His father went before him and prepared her for her son’s approach.  The poor woman raised herself in bed as he came towards her, and weeping as she flung her arms around him, cried:  “Oh, I knew he would come, I knew, I knew he could come.”