Some time after that Tom took an odd notion in his head: he would go up to London and see Mat and his wife and children; he was just hankering for a sight of the lad, as he told Susan. To be sure, Mat had never invited him--never hinted at such a thing in his letters; he could not be sure of his welcome. Susan tried to dissuade him, but to no purpose; for once Tom was deaf to his little woman's advice. He left her in charge of the shop one fine spring morning and started for London and Bayswater, where Mat lived. He came back earlier than Susan expected, and there was a sad look in his eyes as he sat down and filled his pipe. Susan forbore to question him at first; she got him some supper and a jug of the best ale, and presently he began to talk of his own accord: 'There were other people living in No. 23 Mortimer Terrace. The O'Briens had left more than a year ago, and no one knew where they were. Fancy Mat leaving and never giving me his address!' finished Tom with an air of deep depression. He was evidently much wounded at this want of brotherly confidence. 'But surely you know his business address, dear?' Susan asked quietly. No; Tom did not know even that. He reminded her that Mat had long ago left his old employers, and had set up for himself; but Tom did not know where his office was. 'I always wrote to his private address, you know, Susan,' he went on. 'Mat told me that no one ever opened his letters but himself; but how am I to find him out now if he chooses to hide himself from his only brother?' And though Tom said no more, he moped for many a day after that fruitless expedition. By and by the truth leaked out--Mat was in trouble, and in such trouble that no fraternal help could avail him. One awful day, a day that turned Tom's hair gray with horror and anguish, he heard that Mat--handsome, brilliant Mat--was in a felon's cell, condemned to penal servitude for a long term of years. In a moment of despair he had forged the name of one of his so-called friends, and by this terrible act had obtained possession of a large sum of money. Tom's anguish at this news was not to be described; he cried like a child, and Susan vainly tried to comfort him. 'My father's name,' he kept repeating--'he has disgraced our honest name! I will never forgive him; I will have nothing more to do with him--he has covered us all with shame!' And then the next moment he relented at the thought of Mat, beaten down and miserable, and perhaps repentant, in his wretched cell. CHAPTER X PRISCILLA BAXTER 'How many people are busy in this world in gathering together a handful of thorns to sit upon!'--JEREMY TAYLOR.