It may have been the pinch, but the flush on her cheek grew distinctly
brighter. "Don't be ridiculous, Uncle! He's just a boy, a perfectly
splendid boy, and glorious in his game, but a mere boy, and--well, you
know, I've arrived at the age of discretion."
"Quite true!" mused her uncle. "Thirty last birthday, was it? How time
does--!"
"Oh, you perfectly horrid uncle! Thirty indeed! Are you not ashamed to
add to the already intolerable burden of my years? Thirty! No, Sir, not
by five good years at least! There now, you've made me tell my age! You
ought to blush for shame."
Her uncle patted her firm, round cheek. "Never a blush, my dear! You
bear even your advanced age with quite sufficient ease and grace. But
now about this young Cameron," he continued, assuming a sternly judicial
tone.
"All I ask for him is a chance," said his niece earnestly.
"A chance? Why he will get every chance the law allows to clear
himself."
"There you are!" exclaimed Miss Bessie, in a despairing tone. "That's
the way the lawyers and your manager talk. They coolly and without a
qualm get him arrested, this young boy who has never in all his life
shown any sign of criminal tendency. These horrid lawyers display their
dreadful astuteness and ability in catching a lad who never tries to run
away, and your manager pleads the rules of the Bank.
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