We had never trusted Mrs. Batchelder implicitly; and a long time afterwards it came out that there was one sentence in that letter that she had not read to us. It was this: "Don't say anything to any of them about Halstead." Guessing that there had been trouble of some kind between the boys, she was frightened; to shield Alfred she had hurried over with the letter, and had tried to make us believe that the boys had not gone off together. Addison and I still thought that the boys had set out in company, though we did not know what to make of Alfred's letter. We were waiting in that disturbed state of mind, hoping to hear something from Alfred that would clear up the mystery, when the old Squire came home. "He has gone away, sir," Addison said at last, when the old gentleman inquired for Halstead at supper. "Gone away? Where? What for?" the old gentleman asked in much astonishment; and then the whole story had to be told him. The old Squire heard it through without saying much. When we had finished, he asked, "Did you know that Halstead meant to go away?" "We did not know for certain, sir," Addison replied. "Still, you both knew something about it?" "Yes, sir." "Did either one of you do anything to prevent it?" We had to admit that we had done nothing. The old Squire regarded us a moment or two in silence. "In one of the oldest narratives of life that have come down to us," he said at last, "we read that there were once two brothers living together, who did not agree and who often fell out. After a time one of them disappeared, and when the other--his name was Cain--was asked what had become of his brother, he replied, 'Am I my brother's keeper?' "In this world we all have to be our brothers' keepers," the old Squire continued. "We are all to a degree responsible for the good behavior and safety of our fellow beings. If we shirk that duty, troubles come and crimes are committed that might have been prevented. Especially in a family like ours, each ought to have the good of all at heart and do his best to make things go right." That was a great deal for the old Squire to say to us. Addison and I saw just where we had shirked and where we had let temper and resentment influence us. Scarcely another word was said at table. It was one of those times of self-searching and reflection that occasionally come unbidden in every family circle. The old Squire went into the sitting-room to think it over and to learn what he could from grandmother. He was very tired, and I am afraid he felt somewhat discouraged about us. Addison and I went up to our room early that evening. We exchanged scarcely a word as we went gloomily to bed. We knew that we were to blame; but we also felt tremendously indignant with Halstead. Very early the next morning, however, long before it was light, Addison roused me. "Wake up," he said. "Let's go see if we can find that noodle of ours and get him back home."