"Why, then, I want you to aid me to dress."

"Dress? Eh, what, Beverley—get up, is it?"

"Yes. Pray get me my clothes—in the press yonder, I fancy."

"Certainly, my dear fellow, but are you strong enough?" inquired

Mr. Smivvle, coming to the press on tip-toe.

"Strong enough!" cried Barnabas in profound scorn, "Of course I am!" and forthwith sprang to the floor and—clutched at the bedpost to save himself from falling.

"Ha—I feared so!" said Mr. Smivvle, hurrying to him with the garments clasped in his arms. "Steady! There, lean on me—I'll have you back into bed in a jiffy."

"Bed!" snorted Barnabas, scowling down at himself. "Bed—never! I shall be as right as a trivet in a minute or so. Oblige me with my shirt."

So, with a little difficulty, despite Mr. Smivvle's ready aid, Barnabas proceeded to invest himself in his clothes; which done, he paced to and fro across the chamber leaning upon Mr. Smivvle's arm, glorying in his returning strength.

"And so you are going to America?" inquired Barnabas, as he sank into a chair, a little wearily.

"I sail for New York in three days' time, sir."

"But what of your place in Worcestershire?"

"Gone, sir," said Mr. Smivvle, beginning to feel for his whisker. "Historic place, though devilish damp and draughty—will echo to the tread of a Smivvle no more—highly affecting thought, sir—oh demmit!"

"As to—funds, now," began Barnabas, a little awkwardly, "are you—have you—"

"Sir, I have enough to begin with—in America. Which reminds me I must be hopping, sir. But I couldn't go without thanking you on behalf of—my friend Barrymaine, seeing he is precluded from—from doing it himself. Sir, it was a great—a great grief to me—to lose him for, as I fancy I told you, the hand of a Smivvle, sir—but he is gone beyond plague or pestilence, or Jews, dammem! And he died, sir, like a gentleman. So, on his behalf I do thank you deeply, and I beg, herewith, to return you the twenty guineas you would have given him. Here they are, sir." So saying, Mr. Smivvle released his whisker and drawing a much worn purse from his pocket, tendered it to Barnabas.

Then, seeing the moisture in Mr. Smivvle's averted eyes, and the drooping dejection of Mr. Smivvle's whiskers, Barnabas took the purse and the hand also, and holding them thus clasped, spoke.

"Mr. Smivvle," said he, "it is a far better thing to take the hand of an honorable man and a loyal gentleman than to kiss the fingers of a prince. This money belonged to your dead friend, let it be an inheritance from him. As to myself, as I claim it an honor to call myself your friend, so let it be my privilege to help you in your new life and—and you will find five thousand guineas to your credit when you reach New York, and—and heaven prosper you."

"Sir—" began Mr. Smivvle, but his voice failing him he turned away and crossing to the window stood there apparently lost in contemplation of the glory of the morning.

"You will let me know how you get on, from time to time?" inquired

Barnabas.

"Sir," stammered Mr. Smivvle, "sir—oh, Beverley, I can't thank you—I cannot, but—if I live, you shall find I don't forget and—"

"Hush! I think a door creaked somewhere!" said Barnabas, almost in a tone of relief.

In an instant Mr. Smivvle had possessed himself of his shabby hat and was astride of the window-sill. Yet there he paused to reach out his hand, and now Barnabas might see a great tear that crept upon his cheek—as bright, as glorious as any jewel.

"Good-by, Beverley!" he whispered as their hands met, "good-by, and

I shall never forget—never!"

So saying, he nodded, sighed and, swinging himself over the window-ledge, lowered himself from sight.

But, standing there at the casement, Barnabas watched him presently stride away towards a new world, upright of figure and with head carried high like one who is full of confident purpose.

Being come to the end of the drive he turned, flourished his shabby hat and so was gone.

CHAPTER LXXIV

HOW THE DUCHESS MADE UP HER MIND, AND BARNABAS DID THE LIKE

"Gracious heavens—he's actually up—and dressed! Oh Lud, Barnabas, what does this mean?"

Barnabas started and turned to find the Duchess regarding him from the doorway and, though her voice was sharp, her eyes were wonderfully gentle, and she had stretched out her hands to him. Therefore he crossed the room a little unsteadily, and taking those small hands in his, bent his head and kissed them reverently.

"It means that, thanks to you, Duchess, I am well again and—"

"And as pale as a goblin—no, I mean a ghost—trying to catch his death of cold at an open window too—I mean you, not the ghost! And as weak as—as a rabbit, and—oh, dear me, I can't shut it—the casement—drat it! Thank you, Barnabas. Dear heaven, I am so flurried—and even your boots on too! Let me sit down. Lud, Barnabas—how thin you are!"

"But strong enough to go on my way—"

"Way? What way? Which way?"

"Home, Duchess."

"Home, home indeed? You are home—this is your home. Ashleydown is yours now."

"Yes," nodded Barnabas, "I suppose it is, but I shall never live here,

I leave today. I am going home, but before I—"

"Home? What home—which home?"

"But before I do, I would thank you if I could, but how may I thank you for all your motherly care of me? Indeed, dear Duchess, I cannot, and yet—if words can—"

"Pho!" exclaimed the Duchess, knitting her brows at him, but with eyes still ineffably soft and tender, "what do you mean by 'home,' pray?"

"I am going back to my father and Natty Bell."

"And to—that inn?"

"Yes, Duchess. You see, there is not, there never was, there never shall be quite such another inn as the old 'Hound.'"

"And you—actually mean to—live there?"

"Yes, for a time, but—"

"Ha—a publican!" exclaimed the Duchess and positively sniffed, though only as a really great lady may.

"—there is a farm near by, I shall probably—"