you to the end?"

"He's my friend," said the 'Bishop' stoutly.

"My son," said the old man solemnly, "died six years ago, and he can
never, _never_," the second word rang grimly out, "be raised from
the dead. That man there," his voice faltered for the first time, "is
another son whom I do not know--whom I do not want to know--let him
ask himself if he is fit to return with me to England, to live with
those gentlewomen, his sisters, to inherit the duties and
responsibilities that even such wealth as mine bring in their train.
He knows that he is not fit. Is he fit to take my hand?"

He stretched forth his lean white hand, the hand that had signed so
many cheques. Dick did not try to touch it. The 'Bishop' wiped his
eyes. The poor fellow looked the picture of misery.

"If there be the possibility of atonement for such as he," continued
the speaker--"and God forbid that I should dare to say there is
_not_--let that atonement be made here where he has sinned. It
seems that the stoppage of his allowance tempted him to commit
suicide. I did not know my son was a coward. Now, to close for ever
that shameful avenue down which he might slink from the battle, I
pledge myself to pay again that five pounds a month during my life,
and to secure the same to Richard _Cartwright_ after my death, so
long as he shall live. That, I think, is all."

He passed with dignity out of the room and into the street, where the
buggy awaited him. Dick remained standing, but the 'Bishop' followed
the father, noting how, as soon as he had crossed the threshold, his
back became bowed and his steps faltered. He touched the old man
lightly on the shoulder.

"May I take your hand?" he asked. "I am not fit, no fitter than Dick,
but----"

Mr. Carteret held out his hand, and the 'Bishop' pressed it gently.

"I believe," said Mr. Carteret after a pause, "that you, sir, may live
to be an honest man."

"I'll look after Dick," blubbered the 'Bishop,' sorely affected. "Dick
will pan out all right--in the end."

But Dick's father shuddered.

"It's very chilly," he said, with a nervous cough. "Good-night, Mr.
Crisp. Good-night, and God bless you."

XIX

A RAGAMUFFIN OF THE FOOTHILLS

Jeff looked ruefully at the hot dusty road which curled upward and in
front of him like a great white snake. At the top of the grade, where
some pines stood out against the blue sky, hung a small reek of dust
concealing the figure of his late companion. As