"You are not looking well, Will," said the observant mother. "Is your arm healing rightly?" "Oh, yes, well enough." "You are fatigued, then? Let me bring you some sherry." She left the room, and then Dove—looking hesitatingly for a moment—ran forward to him, and buried her face in his bosom, and burst into tears. "It was all my fault, dear," she sobbed. "I wanted to be angry with you, for not coming down by the first train—and—and I thought you would pet me, and make it up, you know—and I even forgot to ask about your arm; but it wasn’t, dear, because I didn’t think of it——" "There, it’s all right," he said. "I didn’t notice you were vexed with me, or I should have made friends with you at once. There, now, you’re only ruffling all your pretty hair, and such a delicate little collar you’ve got!" "Oh!" she said, with smiles breaking through her tears, "you don’t know what I have been making for you." "Tell me." "Twenty times I was near telling you in my letters; but I stopped. I tried to get it done, to give it you to-day, but I couldn’t; and—and perhaps it was that made me vexed with you." "Very likely," said Will, who thoroughly understood the charming byways of Dove’s logic. "It is a worsted waistcoat," she said, in a solemn whisper, "all knitted by myself. And I’ve put in some of my hair, so that you never could see it unless I showed it to you. They say that to give any one some of your hair is so unlucky—that it always means parting; but I couldn’t help putting in just a little." "To represent a little parting—from Saturday to Monday, for example." "Are you going up to town again to-morrow?" she said, with fresh alarm. "The doctor says I ought; but we shall see when to-morrow comes." So peace was established between them. It was only as an afterthought she remembered that he had never once kissed her. During dinner, Will was almost silent. They supposed he was tired with the journey home. When Mrs. Anerley and Dove had left the room, he knew the time was come. "I have bad news for you, father," he said. "Out with it, then," said Mr. Anerley. "Everybody in the house is well in health; anything else does not much matter." "Miall & Welling are down." The old man put back his wineglass on the table. "Miall & Welling’s bank is down?" he said, slowly. "Yes." "Are you sure of it?" "There is their circular." He read the paper carefully, and laid it down. "They say," said Will, "that their affairs are in a terrible plight—quite hopeless." "That means that I have not a farthing of money beyond what is in the house." He remained silent for several minutes, his eyes fixed on the table before him. Then he said— "Very well. There are four of us. If we two men cannot support ourselves and these two women, should not every one have a right to laugh at us?" "But that you, at your age——"