“I’m all right, Aunt Sally,” replied the boy patiently. “I didn’t need my overcoat. Yes, I had my supper at Dr. Richards’s.” “It’s as little as they could do to give you your supper, after you’d been wheeling their son about all the afternoon,” observed Polly. “I liked it,” said Louis, “and they like to have me to tea. It wasn’t to economize, Aunt Polly, on their side or mine.” “It had the same effect, though,” said Polly, looking up with a laugh from the great account-book before her; for Miss Sally had drawn him into her own little sitting-room, the room where Susan Price had died. “What you saved on your supper will help to pay your absence fine.” It was entirely true, and perfectly disinterested in Polly, who was, besides, of twice—nay, ten times—the value to her kind that Rose Randolph was ever likely to be. Yet Louis, hearing now with Pinkie’s ears, as he had seen the great dining-hall with her eyes, turned away sick at heart. “Is the father at home?” he asked. “There’s a board-meeting to-night. He’s there. I suppose it’ll be settled about that carpenter’s place. Your father has taken such a fancy to Mr. Clare, Louis. He says he is the very man we want. I don’t know how he knows.” “I don’t know how _I_ know,” said Louis, “but I do. I think one always does,” he added, so sadly that the women looked at each other meaningly. “You are tired to death,” said Sally, “that’s what’s the matter; and there’s nothing going on to-night to brighten you up. For a wonder the Hall ain’t been lit, and for another the director is at home, playing on the pianner like mad. You might go to his rooms and have a little music, Louis; that would do you good.” “I think I’ll go to bed,” said Louis, smiling faintly. “I heard the Herr Musik-Direktor as I came up; he was playing ‘Tannhäuser,’ and I don’t think I could appreciate Wagner to-night. I’ll go to bed, Aunt Sally.” “Well, so do; but, Louis, by the way, I don’t suppose you saw anything of Gretchen Schaefer?” “Gretchen? no; that is, not since dinner-time. Why?” asked Louis, with his hand on the knob. “She was absent at supper, without leave or notice, and hasn’t been seen since. I am afraid Tina has had a bad turn, that’s all. Gretchen would not do such a thing unless she had to.” “Shall I step around and see?” “No: you’re tired. I’ll go myself. I ain’t had a breath of air to-day, outside the back yard, and it’ll do me good. Polly, there, has the accounts to do. They ought to been ready for the board-meeting; but Gretchen she’s been so put back in her work lately by Tina’s bein’ sick.” “I’ve nearly done,” said Polly, with a vigorous dip of her pen in the inkstand; “and if you’re not too tired, Louis, you might wait and leave these books at the board-room, as you go to bed. It’s as near as any other way, and I promised to send them.”