Tooke really believed that the discreditable bills were the young man’s own, and proofs of concealed habits of dissipation; but this excellent man had gone into the matter, repaired to the tradesfolk, learnt the date, and whose the accounts really were, and had even hunted up the barmaid, who was not married after all, and had no hesitation in avowing that her beau had been the handsome young Yeomanry lieutenant. Mr. Castleford had spent the greater part of Monday in this painful task, but had not been clear enough till quite late in the evening to despatch an express to his partner, and to Clarence, whom he desired to meet him here. ‘He has acted nobly,’ said our kind friend. ‘His only error seems to have been in being too good a brother.’ This made me implore that nothing should be said about Griffith’s bills, showing those injunctions of Clarence’s which had so puzzled me, and explaining the circumstances. Mr. Castleford hummed and hawed, and perhaps wished he had seen my father before me; but I prevailed at last, and when the others came in from their drive, there was nothing to alloy the intelligence that Clarence had shown rare discernment, as well as great uprightness, steadfastness, and moral courage. My mother, when she had taken in the fact, actually shed tears of joy. Emily stood by me, holding my hand. My father said, ‘It is all owing to you, Castleford, and the helping hand you gave the poor boy.’ ‘Nay,’ was the answer, ‘it seems to me that it was owing to his having the root of the matter in him to overcome his natural failings.’ Still, in all the rejoicing, my heart failed me lest the express should have come too late, and Clarence should be already on the high seas, for there had been no letter from him on Sunday morning. It was doubtful whether Mr. Castleford’s messenger could reach London in time for tidings to come down by the coach—far less did we expect Clarence—and we had nearly finished the first course at dinner, when we heard the front door open, and a voice speaking to the butler. Emily screamed ‘It’s he! Oh mamma, may I?’ and flew out into the hall, dragging in a pale, worn and weary wight, all dust and heat, having travelled down outside the coach on a broiling day, and walked the rest of the way. He looked quite bewildered at the rush at him; my father’s ‘Well done, Clarence,’ and strong clasp; and my mother’s fervent kiss, and muttered something about washing his hands.