Mrs. Arundel came upstairs, followed by the boy, who soon made himself at home with the young people. With ready sailor wit, he amused the whole family. Tom's wool-work was quite cast aside, and his only anxiety became that he should be lifted downstairs on all possible occasions. Frank neglected no one. He was politeness itself to Mrs. Arundel; pleasant to the servants; kind to Tom; charming to Ada and the little ones; and fraternised constantly with Arthur. During the mornings, when Ada and Arthur were at school, he often joined Mrs. Arundel and the little ones in the nursery; but sometimes he went out for a stroll in the streets, or to the British Museum, which was near; and when Arthur was free, they were off to see some London sight which was new to the Scotch boy. Thus the first few days of his visit passed quickly away. Arthur used generally to come to Ada's room at night to tell her all that had transpired; but one or two evenings the boys were home rather late, and there was not time, and when Ada said, "Come along, Arthur," one evening, he said, "Don't bother, Ada, I'm tired." Ada looked surprised, but said nothing, and went into her room and shut the door. "What a milksop you are," exclaimed Frank, laughing, as they entered their joint room; "what with 'mamma,' and what with 'sister Ada,' you have no time to yourself." "I don't know that I want any," answered Arthur; but he felt angry; he did not know whether it was with Frank, or with Ada, or with himself. "Of course I am growing up," he mentally argued, "and I have been a good bit with them; but, as Frank says, one cannot be always at Ada's 'beck and call.'" "What are you in a 'brown stud' about now?" asked Frank. "Oh, nothing," answered Arthur hastily, while he prepared for bed. "You're just a wee bit cross, aren't you?" said Frank jestingly. "I don't know that I am." "Well, good-night," said Frank, "we won't talk if you are tired." The words sounded kind in themselves, but there was an ironical ring in them that vexed Arthur, and roused him to make an effort to get rid of his disquieting thoughts; so with a light word or two, he laughed off his ill-humour, and dashed into lively talk. Somehow the atmosphere of the house was less placid than it had been. Tom grew restless, and, strange as it would seem, he was often called 'the weather-glass of the house.' Any change in the moral atmosphere always affected him, and now, while feverishly anxious to enjoy Frank's company whenever he was there, he did not seem satisfied with it when obtained. He was heard to sigh more after liberty; he brooded more over his affliction, and was often snappish to the little ones and fretful with his mother. These were like the old days to him, before he had found out what Christ had done for him. What was the cause? He did not wait to ask himself, or if he did, he knew not the answer.