Mr. Tottenham came back from town that evening alone. He explained that Earnshaw had stayed behind on business. “Business partly mine, and partly his own; he’s the best fellow that ever lived,” was all the explanation he gave to his wife; and Lady Mary was unquestionably curious. They talked a great deal about Edgar at dinner that evening, and Phil made himself especially objectionable by his questions and his indignation. “He hasn’t been here so long that he should go away,” said Phil. “Don’t he like us, papa? I am sure there is something wrong by your face.” “So am I,” said little Molly. “You only look like that when some one has been naughty. But this time you must have made a mistake. Even you might make a mistake. To think of Mr. Earnshaw being naughty, like one of us, is ridiculous.” “Naughty!” cried Phil. “Talk of things you understand, child. I’d like to know what Earnshaw is supposed to have done,” cried the boy, swelling with indignation and dignity, with tears rising in his eyes. “I’ve locked him up in the dark closet in the shop till he will promise to be good,” said the father, with a laugh; “and if you will throw yourself at my feet, Molly, and promise to bear half of his punishment for him, I will, perhaps, let him out to-morrow.” Little Molly half rose from her chair. She gave a questioning glance at her mother before she threw herself into the breach; while Phil, reddening and wondering, stood on the alert, ready to undertake he knew not what. “Nonsense, children; sit down; your father is laughing at you. Seriously, Tom, without any absurdity, what is it?” cried Lady Mary. “I wanted him so to-morrow to hear the first lecture--and he did not mean to stay in town when he left here this morning.” “It is business, mere business,” repeated Mr. Tottenham. “We are not all fine ladies and gentlemen, like you and Phil, Molly. Some of us have to work for our living. If it hadn’t been for Earnshaw, I should, perhaps, have stayed myself. I think we had better stay in town the night of the entertainment, Mary. It will be a long drive for you back here, and still longer for the children. They are going to have a great turn out. I have been writing invitations all day to the very finest of people. I don’t suppose Her Grace of Middlemarch ever heard anything so fine as Mr. Watson’s solo on the cornet. And, Phil, I rely on you to get an encore.” “Oh! I like old Watson. I’ll clap for him,” cried Phil, with facile change of sentiments; though little Molly kept still eyeing her father and mother alternately, not quite reassured. And thus the conversation slid away from Edgar to the usual crotchets of the establishment.