Presently it was time to summon the children to dinner, and when they were seated at table, and Mrs. Rayburn was carving, she said to Maria— "Poor unfortunate little souls, what's to become of them now?" "What's the matter?" asked Frank. "Have you had a letter from muddie?" "No, indeed, and I doubt I never shall. I wonder, Maria, did she know of this when she was here?" "Know of what?" Frank cried. "Do tell me, grandma." "Indeed, I suppose you must know it sooner or later. Your father's in trouble again. First, he loses his good place, and then he goes to Canada and gets put in jail for cheating." Fred was frightened, though he did not understand. Frank did, and said boldly— "It's not true. Father never did that—never!" "Poor child!" said Maria. "Never mind, it's no fault of yours, if he did." "But he did not. He couldn't," Frank insisted. "Don't tell him not to mind, Maria, for he'll have to know it. It is all here in black and white, printed in a newspaper." "It's a mistake, grandma. Father did not—do that." "My poor child, there's no use denying it. You remember John Martin—he married my niece, Annie Thompson that was—he was foreman at Timpson and Booth's, in Hemsborough? Do you remember him?" "Yes, I do," Frank admitted. "Well, he was at this place—New Durham, or Dorset, I forget which exactly—and he saw your father tried and found guilty. He's in jail for it now, and it would be a good thing, if they'd keep him there." "Do you mean always? Will they keep him always?" "It's much the same as far as you're concerned. He's got your mother out now, and got rid of you two—I only hope it wasn't a plan laid between them. Eat your dinner, child. Goodness knows how you're to get a dinner when my lord puts you out of this, and it stands to reason he will not keep you for ever." "I can't eat. It's not that I believe it; muddie would never leave us here always—she wants us—but—but—" the clear little voice broke down—"muddie will come for us soon," he said, with a sob. "I wish I could think so," Mrs. Rayburn said dolefully, "for I see nothing before you but the poorhouse. What's that, Maria?" "A telegram from my lord, ma'am." The telegram gave notice that Lord Beaucourt was coming that evening to get through some business with the steward and keepers, and to arrange with Mrs. Rayburn about rooms, etc., for the shooting-party which was presently to assemble at Kelmersdale. All was now bustle and preparation. The notice was short, but still all could easily be got ready in time. The children were sent out into the court, and told that Lord Beaucourt must now be informed that they were left on their grandmother's hands, and that he would probably insist on their being sent away. "And that means the poorhouse," Mrs. Rayburn said mournfully. Frank sat on the steps, and for a time Fred was with him. The poor child, being very wretched, did not observe that the young rogue soon left him, and stole into the house.