"Your affectionate son, "JAMES BASHWOOD."
In the ecstasy of seeing help placed at last within his reach, the father put his son's atrocious letter to his lips. "My good boy!" he murmured, tenderly--"my dear, good boy!"
He put the letter down, and fell into a new train of thought. The next question to face was the serious question of time. Mr. Pedgift had told him Miss Gwilt might be married in a fortnight. One day of the fourteen had passed already, and another was passing. He beat his hand impatiently on the table at his side, wondering how soon the want of money would force Allan to write to him from London. "To-morrow?" he asked himself. "Or next day?"
The morrow passed, and nothing happened. The next day came, and the letter arrived! It was on business, as he had anticipated; it asked for money, as he had anticipated; and there, at the end of it, in a postscript, was the address added, concluding with the words, "You may count on my staying here till further notice."
He gave one deep gasp of relief, and instantly busied himself--though there were nearly two hours to spare before the train started for London--in packing his bag. The last thing he put in was his blue satin cravat. "She likes bright colors," he said, "and she may see me in it yet!"