“I can’t speak,” gasped George.  “Oh, what is the meaning of this?”

“But I can speak!  Don’t tell me of a London thief being robbed!!!  George Fielding, if you are a man at all, go and leave me and my daughter in peace.  If you had come home with money to keep her, I was ready to give you Susan to my own ruin.  Now it is your turn to show yourself the right stuff.  My daughter has given her hand to a man who can make a lady of her, and set me on my legs again.  You can only beggar us.  Don’t stand in the poor girl’s light; for pity’s sake, George, leave us in peace.”

“You are right, old man; my head is confused;” and George put his hand feebly to his brow.  “But I seem to see it is my duty to go, and I’ll go.”  George staggered.  Robinson made toward him to support him.  “There, don’t make a fuss with me.  There is nothing the matter with me—­only my heart is dead.  Let me sit on this bench and draw my breath a minute—­and then—­I’ll go.  Give me your hand, Tom.  Never heed their jibes.  I’d trust you with more gold than the best of them was ever worth.”

Robinson began to blubber the moment George took his hand, spite of the money lost.  “We worked hard for it, too, good folks, and risked our lives as well as our toil;” and George and Robinson sat hand in hand upon the bench, and turned their heads away—­that it was pitiful to see.

But still the pair held one another by the hand, and George said, faltering:  “I have got this left me still.  Ay, I have heard say that friendship was better than love, and I dare say so it is.”

As if to plead against this verdict, Susan came timidly to her lover in his sorrow, and sat on his other side, and laid her head gently on his shoulder.  “What signifies money to us two?” she murmured.  “Oh, I have been robbed of what was dearer than life this bitter year, and now you are down-hearted at loss of money.  How foolish to grieve for such nonsense when I am so hap—­hap—­happy!” and again the lovely face rested light as down on George’s shoulder, weeping deliciously.

“It is hard, Tom,” gasped George; “it is bitter hard; but I shall find a little bit of manhood by and by to do my duty.  Give me breath! only give me breath!  We will go back again where we came from, Tom; only I shall have nothing to work for now.  Where is William, if you please?  Has he forgotten me, too?”

“William is in prison for debt,” said old Merton, gravely.

“No, he is not,” put in Meadows, “for I sent the money to let him out an hour ago.”

“You sent the money to let my brother out of jail?  That sounds queer to me.  I suppose I ought to thank you, but I can’t.”

“I don’t ask your thanks, young man.”

“You see, George,” said old Merton, “ours is a poor family, and it will be a great thing for us all to have such a man as Mr. Meadows in it, if you will only let us.”

“Oh, father, you make me blush,” cried Susan, beginning to get her first glimpse of his character.