there something amiss, Geoffrey, besides this bad news about your
father?" asked Arnold.

"I'm in the devil's own mess," was the answer.

"Can I do any thing to help you?"

Instead of making a direct reply, Geoffrey lifted his mighty hand, and
gave Arnold a friendly slap on the shoulder which shook him from head
to foot. Arnold steadied himself, and waited--wondering what was coming
next.

"I say, old fellow!" said Geoffrey.

"Yes."

"Do you remember when the boat turned keel upward in Lisbon Harbor?"

Arnold started. If he could have called to mind his first interview in
the summer-house with his father's old friend he might have remembered
Sir Patrick's prediction that he would sooner or later pay, with
interest, the debt he owed to the man who had saved his life. As it was
his memory reverted at a bound to the time of the boat-accident. In
the ardor of his gratitude and the innocence of his heart, he almost
resented his friend's question as a reproach which he had not deserved.

"Do you think I can ever forget," he cried, warmly, "that you swam
ashore with me and saved my life?"

Geoffrey ventured a step nearer to the object that he had in view.

"One good turn deserves another," he said, "don't it?"

Arnold took his hand. "Only tell me!" he eagerly rejoined--"only tell me
what I can do!"

"You are going to-day to see your new place, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"Can you put off going till to-morrow?"

"If it's any thing serious--of course I can!"

Geoffrey looked round at the entrance to the summer-house, to make sure
that they were alone.

"You know the governess here, don't you?" he said, in a whisper.

"Miss Silvester?"

"Yes. I've got into a little difficulty with Miss Silvester. And there
isn't a living soul I can ask to help me but _you._"

"You know I will help you. What is it?"

"It isn't so easy to say. Never mind--you're no saint either, are
you? You'll keep it a secret, of course? Look here! I've acted like an
infernal fool. I've gone and got the girl into a scrape--"

Arnold drew back, suddenly understanding him.

"Good heavens, Geoffrey! You don't mean--"

"I do! Wait a bit--that's not the worst of it. She has left the house."

"Left the house?"

"Left, for good and all. She can't come back again."

"Why not?"

"Because she's written to her missus. Women (hang 'em!) never do these
things by halves. She's left a letter to say she's privately married,
and gone off to her husba