Now the something that Wilfrid had hoped might occur to rouse his father had taken place, and had come in a form very unpleasantly violent and unexpected. The papers a week before had brought the news of the failure of the bank in which the greater portion of Mr. Renshaw's property was invested, and a letter had the following morning been received from a brother of Mrs. Renshaw, who was also a shareholder in the bank, saying that the liabilities were very large, and that the shareholders would undoubtedly be called upon to pay even their last penny to make up the deficiency. This news had been confirmed, and there could be no doubt absolute ruin had fallen upon them. Mr. Renshaw had been completely overwhelmed by the tidings, and had taken to his bed. Wilfrid's holidays had begun a few days before, and his mother at once acquainted him with the misfortune that had befallen them, and she now told him that the calls that would be made upon the shares would more than swallow up the rest of their fortune. "There will be absolutely nothing remaining, Wilfrid, except a thousand pounds that I had at my marriage, and which were fortunately settled upon me. This cannot be touched. Everything else will have to go." "Well, it's a bad business, mother. I will go for a walk and think it over. Marion, put on your hat and come out with me." They had been for their walk--a long one, and he was now expressing the result at which they had arrived. "One thing is certain--something has got to be done." "Yes," Mrs. Renshaw replied with a faint smile. "The question is, What is it?" "Well, mother, it is quite certain that we four cannot live on the interest of a thousand pounds unless we go into a hovel and live on bread and water." "I quite see that, Wilfrid; but I am sure I do not see how we are to earn money. It is far too late for your father to go back to the bar now, and it might be years before he got a brief. At any rate, we could not afford to live in London till he does so. I have been thinking I might open a little school somewhere." [Illustration: Sketch Map of WAIROA AND POVERTY BAY DISTRICTS NORTH ISLAND, NEW ZEALAND] The boy waved his hand. "No, mother, you are not going to take us all on to your shoulders. You have got to look after father; that will be a full share of the work, I am sure. Marion and I have been talking it over, and the only possible thing we can see is for us to emigrate." "To emigrate!" Mrs. Renshaw repeated in astonishment. "Why, my dear boy, what should we be fit for in the colonies more than here?"