“Do not believe it, Ishmael.  Have more faith in the triumph of right against overwhelming odds.  I like the lines you quoted—­’ Thrice is he armed who feels his quarrel just!’ The poets teach us a great deal, Ishmael.  Only to-day I happened to be reading in Scott—­in one of his novels, by the way, this was, however—­of the deadly encounter in the lists between the Champion of the Wrong, the terrible knight Brian de Bois Guilbert, and the Champion of Right, the gentle knight Ivanhoe.  Do you remember, Ishmael, how Ivanhoe arose from his bed of illness, pale, feeble, reeling, scarcely able to bear the weight of his armor, or to sit his horse, much less encounter such a thunderbolt of war as Bois Guilbert?  There seemed not a hope in the world for Ivanhoe.  Yet, in the first encounter of the knights, it was the terrible Bois Guilbert that rolled in the dust.  Might is not right; but right is might, Ishmael!”

“I know it, dear Bee; thank you, thank you, for making me feel it also!” said Ishmael fervently.

“The alternative presented to you last night and this morning was sent as a trial, Ishmael; such a trial as I think every man must encounter once in his life, as a decisive test of his spirit.  Even our Saviour was tempted, offered all the kingdoms of this world, and the glory of them, if he would fall down and worship Satan.  But he rebuked the tempter and the Devil fled from him.”

“And angels came and ministered to him,” said Ishmael, in a voice of ineffable tenderness, as the tears filled his eyes and he approached his arm toward Bee.  His impulse was to draw her to his bosom and press a kiss on her brow—­as a brother’s embrace of a loved sister; but Ishmael’s nature was as refined and delicate as it was fervent and earnest; and he abstained from this caress; he said instead: 

“You are my guardian angel, Bee.  I have felt it long, little sister; you never fail in a crisis!”

“And while I live I never will, Ishmael.  You will not need man’s help, for you will help yourself, but what woman may do to aid and comfort, that will I do for you, my brother,”

“What a heavenly spirit is yours, Bee,” said Ishmael fervently.

“And now let us talk of business, please,” said practical little Bee, who never indulged in sentiment long.  “That poor mother!  You give her your services—­gratuitously of course?”

“Certainly,” said Ishmael.

“But, apart from her counsel’s fee, will she not have other expenses to meet in conducting this suit?”

“Yes.”

“How will she meet them?”

“Bee, dear, I have saved a little money; I mean to use it in her service.”

“What!” exclaimed the young girl; “do you mean to give her your professional aid and pay all her expenses besides?”

“Yes,” said Ishmael, “as far as the money will go.  I do this, dear Bee, as a ‘thank offering’ to the Lord for all the success he has given me, up to this time.  When I think of the days of my childhood in that poor Hill hut, and compare them to these days, I am deeply impressed by the mercy he has shown me; and I think that I can never do enough to show my gratitude.  I consider it the right and proper thing to offer the first fruits of my professional life to him, through his suffering children.”