ve one of my eyes to go; to be up and doing, and
get out into the world--especially to the East. Isn't it hard
lines--one moment to be offered a splendid chance, and the next to have
it snatched away."

"I suppose you couldn't borrow?" she suggested, looking at him over her
spectacles.

"No, who would lend _me_ money? I have no security and no wealthy
friends."

"Well, I am not a wealthy friend, Douglas, but I will lend you a
hundred pounds--I've saved a good bit--and I can."

"No, no, Mrs. Malone," he interrupted. "I couldn't accept it. I know
how hardly your money has been earned; I know all your hateful worries;
your bothers with servants and coal; your trampings into 'the Grove,'
and up and down these confounded stairs."

"But, Douglas, you can pay me back by degrees."

"No; you'd run a poor chance of seeing your hundred pounds again. Mr.
Martin informed me the firm never paid in advance, as cholera carried
off people in a few hours--cheerful, wasn't it? And if I were carried
off, where would _you_ be?"

"Here, my boy, and in the deepest grief."

"Well, thanking you all the same, I will not touch a penny of your
money; but I know you are long-headed and may think of some scheme for
me. I've got nothing to sell of any value; I parted with my father's
watch--and it's still at the pawnbroker's; worse luck!" (His
pitilessly selfish mother had borrowed ten pounds and forgotten the
debt, and he had been compelled to apply to his "Uncle.") Shafto found
his salary a very tight fight; eleven pounds a month seemed to melt
away in board, clothes, washing and those innumerable little expenses
that crop up in London.

"Anyhow, you have till Friday, you proud, obstinate boy, and before
that, I may be able to thrash out something. I have noticed that you
don't look yourself the last few weeks, not my dear lively Douglas,
tearing up and down stairs, whistling like a blackbird. Tell me the
reason," and she laid a well-shaped wrinkled hand upon his arm.

Then, walking up and down the room, he frankly unfolded his
troubles--the approaching marriage of his mother (this was no news),
and, in an agitated and incoherent manner, his desperate predicament
with regard to Cossie Larcher.

"The poor boy," said his listener to herself. "That man-hunting,
determined little cat has got her claws into him. I have seen the
vulgar, made-up minx, without education, fortune, or modesty, trying to
carry off her gentleman cou