“Two for you, Mary,” he said, sorting the letters. “The usual assortment of bills and agents’ circulars for me, I suppose.” He tore open an envelope, and fell silent, while Mrs. Weston became immersed in her own letters. Presently she heard him give a stifled exclamation. She looked up inquiringly. He was staring at the page in his hand, amazement on his face.
“What is it, John?” she asked.
“The most unexpected thing!” he answered, his voice shaking. “Ahearne has paid up!”
“Not the borrowed money!”
“Every penny. Poor old chap, he’s glad to be able to do it. He’s had a legacy; some old aunt in Sydney has died, leaving him enough to clear away his difficulties.” Mr. Weston held out a pink slip of paper. “There’s his cheque—we haven’t seen so much money for ages, Mary-girl!”
Mrs. Weston took the cheque and turned it over slowly, looking at the figures on it. It seemed an incredible thing.
“I’m glad for his sake, too,” she said. “He was unhappier about the money than we were, John.”
“I know he was. But I’ll never regret having lent it to him, even if it did land us in a hole. He’s a good friend.”
He stood up, straightening his shoulders as if a weight had fallen from them.
“Well, that clears away some difficulties,” he said. “I’ll put it in the Bank to-morrow. It won’t put us on our feet, of course, but it will help our credit; and we’ll want all the credit with the Bank that we can get, even if the drought does break.”