"Confound the thing, yes. Why was money invented? It's the plague of
one's life, Catherine. If there was no money there'd be no crime."

"Nonsense," answered Catherine, with shrewdness. "If there wasn't money
there would be its equivalent in some form or other. Are you in debt
again, Loftie?"

"How can I help it? I can't live on my pittance."

"But mother gives you three hundred a year."

"Yes--such a lot! You girls think that a fine sum, I suppose! That's all
you know. Three hundred! It's a pittance. No fellow has a right to go
into the army with such small private means."

"But, Loftie, you would not accept Uncle Roderick Macleod's offer. He
wrote so often, and said he could help you if you joined him in India."

"Yes, I knew what that meant. Now, look here, Kate. We needn't rake up
the past. My lot in life is fixed. I like my profession, but I can't be
expected to care for the beggary which accompanies it. I'm in a scrape,
and I want to see the mater."

"Poor mother! I _wish_ you weren't going to worry her, Loftie."

"It doesn't worry a mother to help her only son."

"But she has helped you so often. You know it was on account of you that
we came down here, because mother had given you so much, and it was the