“Think not that I mean to take your life.  God forbid that I should stain my hand with so foul a crime, and destroy your soul by sending it so unprepared into the presence of the Creator.  It is not blood—­but money I want.”

“Would not a less sum satisfy you?” and the miser eyed fearfully the weapon of offence, on which his son continued to lean, and again drew forth the key.

“Not one farthing less.”

Mark glanced hurriedly round the apartment, and listened with intense anxiety for the sound of expected footsteps.  The sigh of the old trees that bent over the hovel, swept occasionally by the fitful autumnal blast alone broke the deep silence, and rendered it doubly painful.

“Where can the fellow stay?” he muttered to himself; then as if a thought suddenly struck him, he turned to his eon, and addressed him in a more courteous tone.  “Anthony, I cannot give you this great, sum to-night.  But come to me at this hour to-morrow night, and it shall be yours.”

“On what surety?”

“My word.”

“I dare not trust to that.  You may deceive me.”

“When was Mark Hurdlestone ever known to utter a lie?” and a dark red flush of anger mounted to the miser’s face.

“When he forged the news of his brother’s death, to murder by slow degrees my unhappy mother,” said Anthony, scornfully.  “The spirits of the dead are near us in this hour; silently, but truly, they bear witness against you.”

The old man groaned, and sunk his face between his hands as his son continued;

“I cannot wait until the morrow.  This night alone is mine.  If you cannot readily lay your hands upon the money, write me an order upon your banker for the sum.”

“I have neither pen, ink, nor paper,” said the miser, eagerly availing himself of the most paltry subterfuge, in order to gain time until the return of Grenard Pike, or to escape paying the money.

“I can supply you.”  And Anthony drew forth a small writing case, and placed paper before him, and put a pen into his father’s hand.

“Anthony, you had better trust to my word,” said Mark, solemnly.  “Gold is a heavier surety than paper, and by the God who made us, I swear to keep my promise.”

“Aye, but you forget the old proverb, father.  ’A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.’”

The old man eyed him with a glance of peculiar meaning as with a trembling hand he proceeded to write the order.  When he had finished, he folded the paper carefully together, and presented it to his son.  “You will not trust to my honor.  Be it so.  Take this paper, Anthony Hurdlestone, for a Hurdlestone you are, and for the first time in my life I believe that you are my son.  But it is the sole inheritance you will ever receive from me.  Go, and let me see your face no more.”

“God bless you, sir,” said the youth, in a faltering voice.  “Forgive my late intemperate conduct; it was influenced by despair.  From this moment I will love and respect you as my father.”