“Tom, I am very unexpectedly called away. I am sorry that it happened just at this time, but it cannot be helped. Can you manage with only the servants for company until your mother arrives?” “Yes, sir; but will you be gone long?” “I do not know how long; I cannot fix any definite time for my return, as it depends upon others rather than on myself. You will be quite lonely, and I am sorry on your account.” “Never mind me, sir; but—I hope it’s no trouble on _my_ account,” and he glanced anxiously at the telegram, which Earle still had in his hand. “No—oh, no. I may tell you, I suppose—it is more trouble for Miss Dalton; her father is dying, and they have sent for me,” Earle explained. “To the United States, sir!” Tom exclaimed, in dismay, and feeling as if some strong support was slipping from under him. “Yes, and I may have to be absent a month or two, perhaps longer but you must try to make the best of it. Your mother will probably arrive by to-morrow, and I would be glad if she could remain with you until I return,” Earle said, thinking his mother’s influence, and love, and care would be the best guardians he could possibly leave in his absence. “Thank you, sir,” Tom answered, heartily then, after thinking a moment, he added, wistfully: “I am getting strong and well so fast that I would like to begin to do something, sir. If you could leave me some work I should be glad, and the time would not seem so long.” Earle thought a moment, and then asked: “Are you good at accounts?” “I used to be fair at them. I learned Comer’s method after I went to America, thinking to make a business man of myself.” “Then if you would take the trouble to straighten out some accounts that got badly mixed during the last year of the old marquis’ life, it would help me wonderfully.” Tom’s face brightened at once. “I should like it,” he said, eagerly; and Earle felt better at once about leaving him, knowing that if he felt he was making himself useful, he would be more contented. The next day found him on board the Ethiopia, bound for New York, and scarcely able to control his impatience, even though the noble steamer, with favorable wind and weather, was plowing the pathless water with unusual speed. At the end of eight days he stood once more upon American soil, and an hour or two later found him again ascending the steps of Mr. Dalton’s residence. His hand trembled as he pulled the bell, and his heart beat with heavy, painful strokes, so many memories, both sweet and bitter, agitated him. A servant let him quietly in, and an ominous stillness at once struck a chill to his heart. “Is Mr. Dalton living?” he asked. “Yes, sir, but very low,” was the reply. He led him to the same little reception-room where he had seen Editha on that day before Christmas, and where she had given him that little bunch of holly, and wished him, not the stereotyped “Merry Christmas,” but “peace, good-will to men,” instead.