This would have been more on her mind, however, and probably would have come to a more rapid conclusion, if it had not been for the increasing uneasiness about Harry. He did not reply to his mother’s letter; the “course of post” in which she had begged to be answered was far exceeded. _That_ they had not thought much of; but when day succeeded day and no letter came, Mrs. Joscelyn became daily more unhappy, and Joan was more disturbed than she would allow. Even Ralph Joscelyn himself, finding out, no one knew how, for he was not in the habit of interesting himself in the family correspondence, that there was no news of Harry, began to be seen looking out for the postman, and keeping a watch upon the countenances of the women and their communications together. He was uneasy as he had never been known to be before. When he was found to share that anxiety about the post which was so habitual to the others he looked confused, and murmured something about the Sister to Scythian and a bargain which had fallen through. Then his disquietude got so great that he spoke--not to his wife, whose constant wringing of her hands, and drawn countenance and anxious eyes called from him continual bursts of abuse--but to Joan, who, daily becoming more and more anxious herself, was exasperated by them also. “You have word of that lad, I suppose?” Joscelyn said. “No, we have no word.” “He’s a young devil,” said his father, “he’s putting out his temper on you.” “You’ve always set him a good example in that way,” said Joan, promptly; “maybe he is, and maybe not.” “Hold your dashed tongue,” said Joscelyn; “what else could it be?” “How am I to answer you if I hold my tongue? There’s a many reasons possible. He may have made up his mind to write no more to a house he was turned out of.” “Stuff and nonsense! he was coming in at a disgraceful hour, and the door was locked, at a time when every honest door is locked.” “I’m glad you can ease your conscience in that way,” said Joan; “it was at no disgraceful hour; all the boys have been out later, you’ve been out later, many’s the time, yourself. He may have made up his mind as I say,” she added, distinctly, “to disown the house as his home, at which I for one would not wonder: or he may,” and here her voice faltered, “he may--and that’s what I fear--have gone off as lads do----” “Rubbish! blanked nonsense!” cried the father, but his ruddy countenance paled a little. “What do you mean by going off as lads do?” “I cannot tell you,” said Joan, with sober disdain, “if you don’t know.” “It’s just a dashed story you’ve got up,” her father said. “It’s no story at all, for I hope it isn’t so, and I don’t know what it is--but to my mind that’s the most like. I wouldn’t put it into mother’s head for all the world, poor dear!”