“Everything, I believe.”
“Well—put this into your private purse, mother mine. You’ll find some use for it.”
It was a ten-pound note. Mrs. Channing began protesting that she should have enough without it.
“Mrs. Channing, I know your ‘enoughs,’” laughed Hamish, in his very gayest and lightest tone. “You’ll be for going without dinner every other day, fearing that funds won’t last. If you don’t take it, I shall send it after you to-morrow.”
“Thank you, my dear, considerate boy!” she gratefully said, as she put up the money, which would, in truth, prove useful. “But how have you been able to get it for me?”
“As if a man could not save up his odd sixpences for a rainy day!” quoth Hamish.
She implicitly believed him. She had absolute faith in her darling Hamish; and the story of his embarrassments had not reached her ear. Arthur heard all from his distant window. “For that very money, given to my mother as a gift from him, I must suffer,” was the rebellious thought that ran through his mind.
The fly started. Mr. and Mrs. Channing and Charley inside, Hamish on the box with the driver. Tom galloped to the station on foot. Of course the boys were eager to see them off. But Arthur, in his refined sensitiveness, would not put himself forward to make one of them; and no one asked him to do so.
The train was on the point of starting. Mr. and Mrs. Channing were in their places, certain arrangements having been made for the convenience of Mr. Channing, who was partially lying across from one seat to the other; Hamish and the others were standing round for a last word; when there came one, fighting his way through the platform bustle, pushing porters and any one else who impeded his progress to the rightabout. It was Roland Yorke.
“Haven’t I come up at a splitting pace! I overslept myself, Mr. Channing, and I thought I should not be in time to give you a God-speed. I hope you’ll have a pleasant time, and come back cured, sir!”