He was a slender youth of twenty-four, pale-faced and with a regrettable tendency towards acne, his look slightly hangdog and indirect, his dress as foppish as his purse and his fear of his father would allow, his hands, particularly noticeable, being large, soft, dead white in colour, with the nails cut short to the quick, leaving smooth round pads of flesh at the finger ends. He sidled into a chair without appearing to regard

any one in the room, accepted silently a cup of tea which Mamma handed him and began to eat. This, the last member of the household, was Matthew, sole son and, therefore, heir to James Brodic. He was permissibly late for this meal because, being employed as a clerk in the ship stores department in Latta's Shipyard, his hours of work did not cease until six o'clock.

"Is your tea right. Matt?" asked his mother solicitously, in a low voice.

Matthew permitted himself to nod silently.

"Have some of that apple jelly, dear. It's real nice," begged Mamma in an undertone. "You're lookin' a bit tired the night. Have ye had a lot to do in the office to-day?"

He jerked his head noncommittally whilst his pale, bloodless hands moved continuously, cutting his bread into small accurate squares, stirring the tea, drumming upon the tablecloth; he never allowed them to be still, moving them amongst the equipage of the table like an acolyte performing some hasty sacramental rite upon an altar. The downcast look, the bolted mouthfuls, this uneasy inquietude of his hands were the reactions upon his unstable nerves of that morose paternal eye brooding behind his back.

"More tea, son?" whispered his mother, stretching out her hand for his cup. "Try these water biscuits too, they're new in to-day;" then adding, as a sudden thought struck her, "Has your indigestion bothered you to-day?"

"Not too bad," at last he murmured in reply, without looking up.

"Eat your tea slowly then, Matt," cautioned Mamma confidently. "I sometimes think ye don't chew your food enough. Don't hurry!"