“Cousin Lemuel,” said Richard gently, “only just us two are left, and we ought to be good friends, at least.”

“We are good enough friends,” mumbled Mr. Shackford, who cold not evade taking the hand which Richard had forlornly reached out to him, “but that needn’t prevent us understanding each other like rational creatures.  I don’t care for a great deal of fine sentiment in people who run away without so much as thank’e.”

“I was all wrong!”

“That’s what folks always say, with the delusion that it makes everything all right.”

“Surely it help,—­to admit it.”

“That depends; it generally doesn’t.  What do you propose to do?”

“I hardly know at the moment; my plans are quite in the air.”

“In the air!” repeated Mr. Shackford.  “I fancy that describes them.  Your father’s plans were always in the air, too, and he never got any of them down.”

“I intend to get mine down.”

“Have you saved by anything?”

“Not a cent.”

“I thought as much.”

“I had a couple of hundred dollars in my sea-chest; but I was shipwrecked, and lost it.  I barely saved myself.  When Robinson Crusoe”—­

“Damn Robinson Crusoe!” snapped Mr. Shackford.

“That’s what I say,” returned Richard gravely.  “When Robinson Crusoe was cast on an uninhabited island, shrimps and soft-shell crabs and all sorts of delicious mollusks—­readily boiled, I’ve no doubt—­crawled up on the beach, and begged him to eat them; but I nearly starved to death.”

“Of course.  You will always be shipwrecked, and always be starved to death; you are one of that kind.  I don’t believe you are a Shackford at all.  When they were not anything else they were good sailors.  If you only had a drop of his blood in your veins!” and Mr. Shackford waved his head towards a faded portrait of a youngish, florid gentleman with banged hair and high coat-collar, which hung against the wall half-way up the stair-case.  This was the counterfeit presentment of Lemuel Shackford’s father seated with his back at an open window, through which was seen a ship under full canvas with the union-jack standing out straight in the wrong direction.  “But what are you going to do for yourself?  You can’t start a subscription paper, and play with shipwrecked mariner, you know.”

“No, I hardly care to do that,” said Richard, with a good-natured laugh, “though no poor devil ever had a better outfit for the character.”

“What are you calculated for?”

Richard was painfully conscious of his unfitness for many things; but he felt there was nothing in life to which he was so ill adapted as his present position.  Yet, until he could look about him, he must needs eat his kinsman’s reluctant bread, or starve.  The world was younger and more unsophisticated when manna dropped fro the clouds.

Mr. Shackford stood with his neck craned over the frayed edge of his satin stock and one hand resting indecisively on the banister, and Richard on the step above, leaning his back against the blighted flowers of the wall-paper.  From an oval window at the head of the stairs the summer sunshine streamed upon them, and illuminated the high-shouldered clock which, ensconced in an alcove, seemed top be listening to the conversation.