“Eugene,” said he, “if I could find you in earnest for a minute, I would try to say an earnest word to you.”

“An earnest word?” repeated Eugene. “The moral influences are beginning to work. Say on.”

“Well, I will,” returned the other, “though you are not earnest yet.”

“In this desire for earnestness,” murmured Eugene, with the air of one who was meditating deeply, “I trace the happy influences of the little flour-barrel and the coffee-mill. Gratifying.”

“Eugene,” resumed Mortimer, disregarding the light interruption, and laying a hand upon Eugene’s shoulder, as he, Mortimer, stood before him seated on his bed, “you are withholding something from me.”

Eugene looked at him, but said nothing.