ean all of you; every man Jack, as
Martha'd say. You seem to think--but, well! there! let's go to bed."

"To bed?" cried Wilfrid, frowning.

"Why, when it's two or three o'clock in the morning, what's an old
fellow to do? My feet are cold, and I'm queer in the back--can't talk!
Light my candle, young gentleman--my candle there, don't you see it? And
you look none of the freshest. A nap on your pillow'll do you no harm."

"I wanted to talk to you a little, sir," said Wilfrid, about as much
perplexed as he was irritated.

"Now, no talk of bankers' books to-night!" rejoined his father. "I can't
and won't. No cheques written 'tween night and morning. That's positive.
There! there's two fingers. Shall have three to-morrow morning--a pen in
'em, perhaps."

With which wretched pleasantry the little merchant nodded to his son,
and snatching up his candle, trotted to the door.

"By the way, give a look round my room upstairs, to see all right when
you're going to turn in yourself," he said, before disappearing.

The two fingers given him by his father to shake at parting, had told
Wilfrid more than the words. And yet how small were these troubles
around him compared with what he himself was suffering! He looked
forward to the bittersweet hour verging upon dawn, when he should be
writing to Emilia things to melt the vilest obduracy. The excitement
which had greeted him on his arrival at Brookfield was to be thanked for
its having made him partially forget his humiliation. He had, of
course, sufficient rational feeling to be chagrined by calamity, but his
dominant passion sucked sustaining juices from every passing event.

In obedience to his father's request, Wilfrid went presently into the
old man's bedroom, to see that all was right. The curtains of the bed
were drawn close, and the fire in the grate burnt steadily. Calm sleep
seemed to fill the chamber. Wilfrid was retiring, with a revived anger
at his father's want of natural confidence in him, or cowardly secresy.
His name was called, and he stopped short.

"Yes, sir?" he said.

"Door's shut?"

"Shut fast."

The voice, buried in curtains, came after a struggle.

"You've done this, Wilfrid. Now, don't answer:--I can't stand talk. And
you must undo it. Pericles can if he likes. That's enough for you to
know. He can. He won't see me. You know why. If he breaks with me--it's
a common case in any business--I'm... we're involved together." Then
followed a deep sigh