"Are you not going Alfred?" asked his sister, advancing towards an easy chair, near the fire where he had made himself especially snug. "What's all the row about?" said he. "You know as well as I do. What is the use of pretending ignorance? Are you going or no?" "Have they all been such fools as to go?" "Most of them have." "What a confounded shame not to let a man enjoy a quiet evening. I suppose I must go with the rest, but it is a deuced bore all the same." "You think everything a bore that entails a little trouble." "Yes, I do. That fellow Charles ought to know better than to drag us out against a rascally set of low ruffians." "Don't work yourself into a rage," said his sister, "it is not worth while." "No, of course not," replied he, yawning and closing his book. "Well I suppose I must be off, so here goes." "I ought to have been born the man, not you," said Frances, contemptuously. "With all my heart," said he, "and what an easy life I would have had of it." "I do not find my life such a very easy one. You had better make haste if you are going. There, they have opened the hall door." "I'll owe Charles a grudge for this," said he, rising slowly, and seemingly in no hurry to be off, "turning us all out on such a damp, dirty night. As black as pitch too," said he, as he reached the hall, and glanced through the half-opened door. His sister helped him on with his great coat, he grumbling all the while, and vowing they ought to go to bed, instead of going out on such a fool's errand, risking their lives for sheer humbug, as far as he could see. His sister listened in silence, and then said suddenly,-- "Take care of Charles, Alfred, will you?" "Oh, yes," he replied; "and who will take care of me, I should like to know? I may get a sly dig in the ribs, while looking after my neighbours." "No, no, you will be safe, but he is so rash and foolhardy. Do take care of him Alfred, promise me you will?" and she laid her hand entreatingly on his arm as she spoke. He looked surprised as he heard her words and noticed the action, and turning round, caught a glimpse of her pale face. "Well, don't look like that, Frances; I'll make no promises, but I'll try and do the best I can for you. Good-bye." And he, too, was gone. They were all gone, and Frances turned again into the drawing-room, where Amy still sat apparently so quiet and still, but inwardly listening intently to the last foot-fall; the last faint echo of one voice. Now she lost it,--again it reached her ear--was gone! CHAPTER VIII. A DARK NIGHT.