“Yes. Who did you think it was?” replied Alison surlily.
“Your sister. Is she always going to play hide-and-seek with me like this?”
“Like what? How should I know?”
“Look here, young fellow,” cried Sir Cheltnam; “what’s come to you these last three weeks?”
“Nothing.”
“Bah! I’m not blind. There’s something the matter. It isn’t filial affection and grief, because the old man’s getting better. It isn’t love, because the fair Dana is pining for you on horseback somewhere. There is only one other grief can befall a hale, hearty young man; so it’s money.”
“Nonsense!”
“Must be, and if so, my dear boy, come in a brotherly way to me for help, and it is yours, either with a check of my own or somebody else’s in the city.”
“It isn’t money,” said Alison shortly. “I’ve as much as I want.”
“My dear Alison Elthorne,” cried Sir Cheltnam, grasping his hand, “that will do. You must stop now. You can go no farther. A young man of your years, appearance, and pursuits who can say that he has as much money as he wants, is a paragon, a rara avis in terris, a perfect model.”