you
would do?"

"Take my money now, and pay me out of hers as soon as you are
married. I will be the first to claim it from her,--and from you."

"That is nonsense."

"Why should it be nonsense? Surely you need have no scruple with me.
I should have none with you if I wanted assistance."

"Look here, Kate; I won't have it, and there's an end of it. All that
you have in the world would not pull me through this election, and
therefore such a loan would be worse than useless."

"And am I to ask her for more than two thousand pounds?"

"You are to ask her simply for one thousand. That is what I want, and
must have, at present. And she knows that I want it, and that she is
to supply it; only she does not know that my need is so immediate.
That you must explain to her."

"I would sooner burn my hand, George!"

"But burning your hand, unfortunately, won't do any good. Look here,
Kate; I insist upon your doing this for me. If you do not, I shall
do it, of course, myself; but I shall regard your refusal as an
unjustifiable falsehood on your part, and shall certainly not see you
afterwards. I do not wish, for reasons which you may well understand,
to write to Alice myself on any subject at present. I now claim your
promise to do so; and if you refuse, I shall know very well what to
do."

Of course she did not persist in her refusal. With a sorrowful heart,
and with fingers that could hardly form the needful letters, she did
write a letter to her cousin, which explained the fact--that George
Vavasor immediately wanted a thousand pounds for his electioneering
purposes. It was a stiff, uncomfortable letter, unnatural in
its phraseology, telling its own tale of grief and shame. Alice
understood very plainly all the circumstances under which it was
written, but she sent back word to Kate at once, undertaking that the
money should be forthcoming; and she wrote again before the end of
January, saying that the sum named had been paid to George's credit
at his own bankers.

Kate had taken immense pride in the renewal of the match between her
brother and her cousin, and had rejoiced in it greatly as being her
own work. But all that pride and joy were now over. She could no
longer write triumphant notes to Alice, speaking always of George as
one who was to be their joint hero, foretelling great things of his
career in Parliament, and saying little soft things of his enduring
love. It was no longer possible to her now to write