ttered on the extreme edge of a table
heaped with dusty books and papers; and at a desk in the centre of the
room, with a great paraffin lamp flaring upon his face as he wrote, sat
John Saltram, surrounded by fallen slips of copy, writing as if to win a
wager.

"Who is it? and what do you want?" he asked in a husky voice, without
looking up from his paper or suspending the rapid progress of his pen.

"Why, Jack, I don't think I ever caught you so hard at work before."

John Saltram dropped his pen at the sound of his friend's voice and got
up. He gave Gilbert his hand in a mechanical kind of way.

"No, I don't generally go at it quite so hard; but you know I have a
knack of doing things against time. I have been giving myself a spell of
hard work in order to pick up a little cash for the children of Israel."

He dropped back into his chair, and Gilbert took one opposite him. The
lamp shone full upon John Saltram's face as he sat at his desk; and after
looking at him for a moment by that vivid light, Gilbert Fenton gave a
cry of surprise.

"What is the matter, Gil?"

"You are the matter. You are looking as worn and haggard as if you'd had
a long illness since I saw you last. I never remember you looking so ill.
This kind of thing won't do, John. You'd soon kill yourself at this
rate."

"Not to be done, my dear fellow. I am the toughest thing in creation. I
have been sitting up all night for the last week or so, and that does
rather impair the freshness of one's complexion; but I assure you
there's nothing so good for a man as a week or two of unbroken work. I
have been doing an exhaustive review of Roman literature for one of the
quarterlies, and the subject involved a little more reading than I was
quite prepared for."

"And you have really not been ill?"

"Not in the least. I am never ill."

He pushed aside his papers, and sat with his elbow on the desk and his
head leaning on his hand, waiting for Gilbert to talk. He was evidently
in one of those silent moods which were common to him at times.

Gilbert told him of his Melbourne troubles, and of his immediate
departure. The announcement roused him from his absent humour. He dropped
his arm from the table suddenly, and sat looking full at Gilbert with a
very intent expression.

"This is strange news," he said, "and it will cause the postponement of
your marriage, I suppose?"

"Unhappily, yes; that is unavoidable. Hard lines, isn't it, Jack?"

"Well, y