"I am—not wise, perhaps. Looking forward and expecting ill is not a sensible occupation. But the feeling overpowers me at times. It has been upon me so strongly of late—a constant sense of coming trouble. I can hardly define what I mean; it weighs me to the ground! And it will come true!" The last few words were almost whispered. Euphrasia's heart beat thickly. "Then it is not only a feeling. It is something that you really know, something going wrong at the Bank." "Hush! Hush!" and he glanced round apprehensively. "You must not suggest such things." He held one hand over his brow. "I wish my head did not feel as it does of late. But that is a small matter. If I could only think—" "Father, what is wrong really?" "Did I say—anything was?" "Yes. You meant it." Another anxious look round. Euphrasia went to the door and demonstrated the fact of its being fast shut. Then she returned to his side, standing close and speaking low. "Please tell me. I will not talk. I will not repeat a word. Only tell me what you mean." He hid his face, groaned, and said, "Everything is going." "Not the Bank!" "Hush!" "Father—do you mean—is 'that' going to fail?" He laid his large hot hand again on her little plump one, and held it in a grasp which gave positive pain. Euphrasia endured the pain without flinching. As she stood thus, waiting, listening to the loud ticks of the clock, watching the veins swollen on her father's forehead, she had a strange sense of growing older fast, of each minute being almost as a year in her existence, of all remnants of childhood slipping from her. Whatever her father's mood might imply, it certainly implied something serious. A mutter came at length, hoarse and low, "Loss of everything." "For 'us?'" He moved his head in silent assent. "When? How?" "I cannot tell. I see it looming." "And nothing can be done to keep it off?" "Nothing whatever." She crept closer, and caught her breath audibly. "Hush! If your mother comes in—" "Must she not know?" "Not a day earlier than need be! . . . It will kill us both! . . . Let her be happy a little longer." His haggard eyes looked into Euphrasia's. "I do not know why I have told you—such a child as you are! It does no good. I have been selfish to speak." "Poor father!" Euphrasia's voice was seldom so tender. Mr. Mackenzie was stirred by it to strong emotion. He hid his face. "Poor Euphrasia! Poor little Eyebright! They will say I have been a bad father to you all! But—not from want of love!" "Oh, no! Don't say that! Don't talk so, please! The dearest and best of fathers! Please don't say such things. I can't go to-morrow. I'll stay at home." "No, my dear. You must go." "I can't! How can I? There will be no pleasure in it at all—now."