That was apparently her business this afternoon. But Josina, whose faculties were quickened by the pity which she felt for the unconscious mother, soon perceived that this was not her only or, indeed, her real motive. The visitor was not herself. She was nervous, the current of her small talk did not run with its usual freedom, she let her eyes wander, she broke off and began again. By and by as the strain increased she let her anxiety appear, and at last, “I wish you would tell me,” she said, “what is the matter with Arthur. He is not open with me,” raising her eyes with a piteous look to Josina’s face. “And—and he’s something on his mind, I’m sure. I noticed it on Sunday, and I am sure you know. Is there”—and Josina saw with compassion that her mittened hands were trembling—“is there anything—wrong?” The girl had her answer ready, for she had already decided what she would say. “I am afraid that they are anxious about the bank,” she said. “There is what they call a ‘run’ upon it.” The explanation was serious enough, but, strange to say, Mrs. Bourdillon looked relieved. “Oh! And I suppose that they all have to be there?” “Yes, I suppose so.” “And that’s all?” “I am afraid that that is enough.” “But—but you don’t mean that there may be a—a failure?” “I hope not. Indeed, I hope not. But people are so silly! They think that they can all have their money out at once. And of course,” Josina continued, speaking from a height of late-acquired knowledge, “a bank lends its money out and cannot get it in again in a minute. But I’ve no doubt that it will be all right. Mr. Ovington is very clever.” Mrs. Bourdillon sighed. “That’s bad,” she said. And she seemed to think it over. “You know that all our money is in the bank now, Josina! I don’t know what we should do if it were lost! I don’t know what we should do!” But, all the same, Josina was clear that this was not the fear that her visitor had had in her mind when she entered the room. “Nor why Arthur was so set upon putting it in,” the good lady continued. “For goodness knows,” bridling, “we were never in trade. Mr. Bourdillon’s grandfather—but that was in the West Indies and quite different. I never heard anyone say it wasn’t. So where Arthur got it from I am sure I don’t know. And, oh dear, your father was so angry about it, he will never forgive us if it is lost.” “I don’t think that you need be afraid,” Josina said, as lightly as she could. “It’s not lost yet, you know. And of course we must not say a word to anyone. If people thought that we were afraid——” “We? But I can’t see”—Mrs. Bourdillon spoke with sudden sharpness, “what you have to do with it?” Josina blushed. “Of course we are all interested,” she said. Mrs. Bourdillon saw the blush. “You haven’t—you and Arthur—made it up?” she ventured. Josina shook her head. “But why not? Now—now that he’s in trouble, Josina?” “I couldn’t! I couldn’t, indeed.”