Don't mind speaking out your mind to me--you used to pretty well when I shied at that physic you poured into me a few weeks back."

"I should have asked how the leg is," she said leaping at the opening to change the subject. "Is it still very painful?"

"Oh, it comes and goes," he replied. "Mostly goes."

"Don't you think it would be a good thing if you took the doctor's advice now and went away for a change and a rest? It would make you all right again in a few months. The hard, rough life you lead at Taloona makes it very difficult for you to get up your strength after the experience you have had."

He smiled grimly--his facial muscles had been so long strangers to anything approaching tokens of mirth or pleasure that they did not move easily.

"I suppose it is a bit rough out there," he said. "But then, you see, I'm used to a rough life--I've had it all my days. Is that why you wouldn't stay? Was it too rough for you?"

He looked round the little sitting-room in which she had the furniture and nicknacks from her room at the bank.

"There's a bit of a difference I will say," he went on as she did not reply. "It's a flower-garden to a stock-yard to compare this room with the hut you had out at Taloona. Look here. I'll build a new house, build it as big as you like or as little as you like, and you shall furnish it and fit it up just as you fancy--if you'll only make it a home for yourself."

She shook her head.

"No, Mr. Dudgeon, I am afraid that is impossible," she said. "At the same time, I want to thank you very much for what you say."

"Look here," he exclaimed. "I don't want thanks. You know what my life has been--I told you the story often enough when I was lying sick and you were waiting on me like an angel--oh, I mean it," he added, as she looked up. "Just let me say what I've got to say. When you came back here, and I was by myself again, I began to think. Somehow the old views didn't seem quite to fit together. There was something wrong somewhere and I reckon that somewhere was me. I've put a wrong twist on things. It never struck me there was more than one woman in the world who could do anything to make me contented. So I set out to make money. I made it, made it by the ton. And now I've got it what's the good of it to me?"

"There is no limit to the good it may be if it is properly applied, Mr.

Dudgeon."

"Where will it do good?" he exclaimed. "That's just what I want to know.

Tell me."

"There are hospitals," she said. "And schools. You might found scholarships for poor students to----"

"And chapels and missions and dogs' homes--go on, trot out the whole list," he interrupted. "None of them will ever get a pennypiece out of me. More than half the money given to them goes to keep a lot of lazy, patronising officials in luxury--I know--I've come in contact with them when they have been cadging after me for subscriptions. They cringe till they find out there's nothing for them, and then they snarl. I've no time for that sort of people, no time nor money either."

"Then I hardly know what to suggest," she said, "unless----"

"Unless what?"

"You helped Mrs. O'Guire and her children, if she has any."

His mouth went into its old hard lines, and he sat silent for a time.

"It's no good talking about that," he said presently. "The best thing I can do for them is not to think about them--I'd be after them again if I do--if I could find them. Help them? No. I'd rather give the money to the Government to build gaols. Can't you think of anything else?"

"I'm afraid I cannot," she answered. "But I am still sure your money will do good if it is properly applied."

"Ah, that's it. If it's properly applied. I'm an old man now. How am I to apply it? There's only one way that I can see, and that is what I am going to do with it. I'm going to give it away. What do you think of that?"

"If you give it away where it will do good I think it is a very excellent idea," she answered.

"You know that youngster at the bank, don't you? Young Harding, I mean."

"Yes," she replied.

"Do you think he is a man to be trusted?"

"I know he is, Mr. Dudgeon."

"I'll take your word for it," he said as he stood up. "I'll get along and see him. You can let him know if you want anything and he'll send on word to me. I'll look in again next time I'm pa.s.sing. Good-bye."

He held out his hand, hard, knotted, and roughened with toil, and she placed hers in it. His fingers closed on hers, and he stood looking into her eyes till she grew uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

"I'd give everything I've got in the world," he said hoa.r.s.ely, "for a daughter like you."

He dropped her hand and limped quickly to the door, opening it and going out without looking back.

Through the window she saw him pa.s.s along the road towards the bank, his head up in the old defiant way, the limp robbing his stride of much of its st.u.r.diness. Without a glance at the cottage he pa.s.sed out of sight.

Right through the town he walked until he came to the bank.

Harding, looking up at the sound of footsteps, was surprised to see him limping to the counter.

"Good day, Mr. Dudgeon," he exclaimed.

"Do you know how to make a will?" the old man asked, without replying to the greeting.

"That is more the work of a solicitor than a banker, Mr. Dudgeon."

"Oh, I know all about that. If it's going to be a long, muddled, complicated affair a solicitor's the man to go to. But that's not what I want. I want to make a will leaving everything I possess to just one person. I'm no hand with a pen, so I thought you might be able to do it for me."

"Mr. Wallace is inside; perhaps he could advise you better."

"Well, I'll see him."

Remembering his last interview with the crotchety old man, Wallace was particularly circ.u.mspect when he met him.

"What I want is this," Dudgeon exclaimed. "I want to say it in such a manner that there can be no questioning the thing afterwards, that is when I'm gone, you understand?"

"I understand," Wallace replied.

"I want to leave everything I possess to one person. If that is written on a sheet of paper and I sign it, isn't that enough?"

"If your signature is witnessed by two persons."

"Then go ahead. Write it out for me. You and this young man can be witnesses."

"It is an unusual thing for the Bank to do, Mr. Dudgeon; but if you really wish it, of course we shall be only too happy to oblige you.

Don't you think Mr. Gale----"

"No," the old man snapped. "I've finished with Gale."

"Then will you come into my room and we will do the best we can for you."