As he hung up his hat on its accustomed peg, he was aware of an unusual silence in the house. The parlour door was not opened, and there was no Joanna, with her irritating question, "Is that you, Thorold?" Neither did he hear her soft, gliding footsteps overhead. "Perhaps she has gone to the Red House after all," he said to himself. And the thought of an evening of blissful solitude pleased him well. But as he entered the sitting-room, he started. There were no preparations for the evening meal. The tea-things were still on the table, and, to his intense surprise, a child--actually a child--was fast asleep on the couch by the fire. Thorold crossed the room softly, and contemplated the little stranger with puzzled eyes. "It must be one of Joa's waifs and strays," he thought--for he was aware of his sister's charitable propensities. And yet she hardly looked like a tramp's child. "Very likely the poor little thing has lost her way, and Joa is taking her in for the night," he continued. "Poor child, she seems tired out." And then his eyes softened, as he noticed how carefully Joanna had wrapped her up in her old fur cloak. The next moment he heard his sister's footsteps on the stairs, and went out into the passage to question her. But when he saw her face, he was struck dumb with astonishment. Joanna was looking radiant. She was dimpling and smiling like the girl Joa of old, and her blue eyes were shining through happy tears. "Oh, Thorold, why are you so late. We have wanted you so!" And Joanna's thin white hands grasped him almost convulsively. "Who is that child?" he whispered, loudly. "Is it some one you have found in the street?" Then, in her excitement, she gave him an hysterical little push. "You have seen her! Oh, Thorold, is she not like him? His little Betty! My darling Tristram's little Betty!" and as he stared at her, and turned pale--for a sudden prevision of the truth had come to him--she sobbed out, "Yes, yes, Tristram has come--he is upstairs; he is in your room, Thorold. Go to him, dear, while I get your supper ready." And then Thorold drew a long breath, and darted upstairs. And Joanna, crying softly, out of sheer bliss and gratitude, busied herself in womanly ministrations. Thorold was thankful to meet his brother alone. In spite of his reserve he was a man of deep feelings, and when he felt Tristram's mighty grasp of his hand, and heard his familiar voice say in broken accents, "Theo, dear old fellow!--dear old chap!" he was almost too moved to speak. "Why have you not written to us all these years?" were his first coherent words; but Tristram shook his head--he had no excuse to offer. He had drifted from place to place, seeking work and not always finding it, and he did not wish his friends to know how hardly things had gone with him. "I was always a proud beggar, Thorold," he said, with a sigh, "but my back is pretty well broken now, and there's Bet, you see."