“You will be very careful, Mr Ross,” he said. “Let the bunch glide, as it were, into the leaves. A little more to the right. Now then cut—cut!”
The scissors gave a sharp snip, and the second bunch reclined in its green bed.
“I didn’t think of it before,” said the Rector, whose face glowed with pleasure as Luke descended. “They are not quite so fine as this bunch,” he said, apologetically.
“Really, I hardly see any difference, Mr Mallow,” replied Luke.
“Very little, Luke Ross. Will you carry them home with you? Your father will be pleased with them, I know. He likes my grapes, Mr Ross.”
Luke’s answer was to grasp the old man’s hand, which he retained as he spoke.
“I thank you, Mr Mallow,” he said. “It was thoughtful and kind of you to the poor old man. Now, may I say something to you? Forgive me if I bring up painful things.”
“It is something about Julia, or about my son,” gasped the Rector. “Tell me quickly—tell me the worst.”
“Be calm, Mr Mallow,” said Luke, quietly; “there is nothing wrong.”
“Thank God!” said the old man, fervently, with a sigh that was almost a groan. “Thank God!”