“Why?” she said sharply. “I don’t believe in these very warm friendships between men!”
“It was when our father died, Mary, more than twenty years ago; and for want of a hundred pounds I thought I should have to leave college.”
“Yes?” said the little lady, sharply.
“Henry Bolter found it out, and he forced the money into my hand.”
“He did?”
“Yes, my dear Mary, and he never would let me pay it back again.”
“But didn’t you try, Arthur?”
“Four times over, my dear Mary; but he always sent the money back to me in a letter with only one word in it.”
“And what was that?”
There was a dry, half-pitiful smile in the Reverend Arthur’s face as he replied, gazing fixedly the while at his sister: