"Perhaps he will do better in a new world," Thorold said, when Joanna bewailed his departure rather bitterly. Tristram was her darling; she loved him far better than she did Thorold. Like many other prodigals, Tristram Chaytor was not without his endearing qualities. Women loved him, and he was good to them; but in character he was selfish and unstable as water, and very prone to fall into temptation. Already, as Thorold knew, he had become addicted to low pleasures. His friends were worthless and dissipated; but Joanna, who was mildly obstinate on occasion, turned a deaf ear to all Thorold's hints on this subject. Tristram seemed to do better for a time in his new environment. Then he foolishly married some pretty, penniless girl who took his fancy, and after that they lost sight of him. Thorold was thinking of him now as he walked over the wet bridge; although he was a ne'er-do-well, he was his only brother, and in the old days they had been close chums and playfellows. "Dear old Trist," he said to himself. "I wonder what he is doing now, and if Ella makes him a good wife." And then, in the darkness, Tristram's handsome face and tender, humourous smile seemed to rise vividly before him. He could even hear his voice, clear and boyish, close to his ear--"Well played, old chappie--but it was a fluke for all that!'' "What on earth makes me think of Trist to-night?" Thorold asked himself, in some perplexity--but if he had only guessed the truth, he need not have puzzled himself: at that very moment, under the flickering, wind-blown gaslight, the brothers had passed each other without recognition, "like ships that pass in the night." Thorold was trying to keep his umbrella steady, and took no notice of the passenger, who almost brushed his elbow--though he heard a small, childish voice say, "I don't like English rain, father." But the answer did not reach him. "Aye, it is a bit saft, Bet--as the Scotch folk say. Creep under my Inverness cape, little one, and it will keep you dry." And then the little feet toiled on wearily and bravely in the darkness. As Thorold let himself in with his latch-key, the parlour-door was opened hastily, and a woman's face peeped out anxiously. "Is that you, Thorold?" Then the man bit his lip with sudden irritation. Day after day, month after month, this was Joanna's never-varying formula--until "Is that you, Thorold?" seemed to be dinned into his brain like a monotonous sing-song.