"Then don't say any more, Sir Francis," replied Mr Solomon quietly.

"I've been your servant--"

"Faithful servant, Brownsmith."

"Well, Sir Francis, `faithful servant,'" said Mr Solomon smiling,

"these twenty years, and you don't suppose I'm going to heed a word or

two like that."

"Thank you, Brownsmith," said Sir Francis, and he turned to Ike and

spoke sharply once more.

"What regiment were you in, sir?"

"Eighth Hoozoars, Captain," said Ike, drawing himself up and standing at

attention.

"Colonel," whispered Mr Solomon.

"All right!" growled Ike.

"Well, then, Isaac Barnes, speaking as one old soldier to another, I

said words to you to-night for which I am heartily sorry. I beg your

pardon."

"God bless you, Colonel! If you talk to me like that arterward, you may

call me what you like."

"Eh?" cried Sir Francis sharply; "then I will. How dare you then, you

scoundrel, go and disgrace yourself; you, an ex-British soldier--a man

who has worn the king's uniform--disgrace yourself by getting drunk?

Shame on you, man, shame!"

"Go on, Colonel. Give it to me," growled Ike. "I desarve it."

"No," said Sir Francis, smiling; "not another word; but don't let it

occur again."

Ike drew his right hand across one eye, and the left over the other, and

gave each a flip as if to shake off a tear, as he growled something

about "never no more."

I hardly heard him, though, for I was trembling with agitation as I saw

Sir Francis turn to me, and I knew that my turn had come.

"Grant, my lad," he said quietly; "I can't tell you how hurt and sorry I

felt to-night when I believed you to be mixed up with that contemptible

bit of filching. There is an abundance of fruit grown here, and I

should never grudge you sharing in that which you help to produce. I

was the more sorry because I have been watching your progress, and I was

more than satisfied: I beg your pardon too, for all that I have said.

Those boys shall beg it too."

He held out his hand, and I caught it eagerly in mine as I said, in

choking tones.

"My father was an officer and a gentleman, sir, and to be called a thief

was very hard to bear."

"It was, my lad; it was," he said, shaking my hand warmly. "There,

there, I'll talk to you another time."

I drew back, and we were leaving the room, I last, when, obeying an

impulse, I ran back.

"Well, my lad?" he said kindly.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Francis; but you said that they should beg my

pardon."

"Yes," he said hotly; "and they shall."

"If you please, Sir Francis," I said, "I would rather they did not."




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