He kept the trouble to himself, and all the more did it weigh upon him with terrible effect. The home in which they had been so happy from the first day of their marriage was slipping from him; the exposure would be a disgrace; the chances were that he would lose his situation at the bank; and what would become of him after that? He dared not think of it. Unconsciously he paced the rooms of the dear home, gazing at the old mementos with exaggerated affection. They were part of his life; to every small item some story was attached which invested it with a sweet and human interest. It was an additional torture that he had kept his secret from his wife. "My dear," said his wife to him while he was dressing in the morning, "you were very restless last night." "Was I?" he remarked, with a guilty air. "Yes. You were tossing about for hours, and murmuring something about a bill." "Oh," he said, "the bank business. It is beginning to tell upon me, perhaps." "Nonsense," said Aunt Leth; "you want a little medicine." "Yes," he said, meekly; "that must be it." "I dreamt of Phoebe all night long," said Aunt Leth. "What would I not give to see her dear face!" "It is strange we hear nothing of her," he observed. "It is wearing upon Mr. Cornwall." "And upon all of us. Fanny is quite a changed girl. All her high spirits seem to be going." "It is terrible," said Mr. Lethbridge, absently. He loved Phoebe devotedly, but he was thinking of the bill. "Tom Barley is going to Parksides to-night. 'Melia Jane says he is determined to get some news of the dear girl." "I hope he will," said Mr. Lethbridge; and then they went down to breakfast. On his way to the bank that morning he made up his mind that before the week was out he would confide his trouble to his wife. CHAPTER XVIII. O RARE TOM BARLEY!