Clarence did look indescribably miserable while it was explained that he had been commissioned to receive about £20 which was owing to my father, and to discharge therewith some small debts to London tradesmen. All except the last, for a little more than four pounds, had been paid, when Clarence met in the street an old messmate, a good-natured rattle-pated youth,—one of those who had thought him harshly treated. There was a cordial greeting, and an invitation to dine at once at a hotel, where they were joined by some other young men, and by and by betook themselves to cards, when my poor brother’s besetting enemy prevented him from withdrawing when he found the points were guineas. Thus he lost the remaining amount in his charge, and so much of his own that barely enough was left for his journey. His salary was not due till Lady Day; Mr. Castleford was in the country, and no advances could be asked from Mr. Frith. Thus Griff had found him in utter despair, and had ever since been trying to cheer him and make light of his trouble. If I advanced the amount, which was no serious matter to me, Clarence could easily get Peter to pay the bill, and if my father should demand the receipt too soon, it would be easy to put him off by saying there had been a delay in getting the account sent in. ‘I couldn’t do that,’ said Clarence. ‘Well, I should not have thought you would have stuck at that,’ returned Griff. ‘There must be no untruth,’ I broke in; ‘but if without _that_, he can avoid getting into a scrape with papa—’ Clarence interrupted in the wavering voice we knew so well, but growing clearer and stronger. ‘Thank you, Edward, but—but—no, I can’t. There’s the Sacrament to-morrow.’ ‘Oh—h!’ said Griff, in an indescribable tone. But he will never believe you, nor let you go.’ ‘Better so,’ said Clarence, half choked, ‘than go profanely—deceiving—or not knowing whether I shall—’ Just then we heard our father wishing the other gentlemen good-night, and to our surprise Clarence opened the door, though he was deadly white and with dew starting on his forehead. My father turned good-naturedly. ‘Boys, boys, you are glad to be together, but mamma won’t have you talking here all night, keeping her baby up.’ ‘Sir,’ said Clarence, holding by the rail of the bed, ‘I was waiting for you. I have something to tell you—’ The words that followed were incoherent and wrong end foremost; nor had many, indeed, been uttered before my father cut them short with— ‘No false excuses, sir; I know you too well to listen. Go. I have ceased to hope for anything better.’