lent for a moment, while he considered the proposition.

'I can trust him in your hands. You will make a good and a strong man of
him. Oh, won't you give him this chance of washing out the stain that is
on our name?'

'Do you know that he will have to undergo hunger and thirst and every
kind of hardship? It's not a picnic that I'm going on.'

'I'm willing that he should undergo everything. The cause is splendid.
His self-respect is wavering in the balance. If he gets to noble work he
will feel himself a man.'

'There will be a good deal of fighting. It has seemed foolish to dwell
on the dangers that await me, but I do realise that they are greater
than I have ever faced before. This time it is win or die.'

'The dangers can be no greater than those his ancestors have taken
cheerfully.'

'He may be wounded or killed.'

Lucy hesitated for an instant. The words she uttered came from unmoving
lips.

'If he dies a brave man's death I can ask for nothing more.'

Alec smiled at her infinite courage. He was immensely proud of her.

'Then tell him that I shall be glad to take him.'

'May I call him now?'

Alec nodded. She rang the bell and told the servant who came that she
wished to see her brother. George came in. The strain of the last
fortnight, the horrible shock of his father's conviction, had told on
him far more than on Lucy. He looked worn and ill. He was broken down
with shame. The corners of his mouth drooped querulously, and his
handsome face bore an expression of utter misery. Alec looked at him
steadily. He felt infinite pity for his youth, and there was a charm of
manner about him, a way of appealing for sympathy, which touched the
strong man. He wondered what character the boy had. His heart went out
to him, and he loved him already because he was Lucy's brother.

'George, Mr. MacKenzie has offered to take you with him to Africa,' she
said eagerly. 'Will you go?'

'I'll go anywhere so long as I can get out of this beastly country,' he
answered wearily. 'I feel people are looking at me in the street when I
go out, and they're saying to one another: there's the son of that
swindling rotter who was sentenced to seven years.'

He wiped the palms of his hands with his handkerchief.

'I don't mind what I do. I can't go back to Oxford; no one would speak
to me. There's nothing I can do in England at all. I wish to God I were
dead.'

'George, don't say that.'

'It's all very well for you. You're a