"Oh, she'll probably go all right. Why fuss until we find out? But I don't think she's as crazy about you as you are about her." "Girls always conceal their real feelings," Billy explained sagely. "Perhaps," Philip conceded very little; "but Merry isn't like most girls. Sometimes she seems about my own age and sometimes old enough to be my mother. But have it your own way; I should worry." The welcome was hearty enough to satisfy even Billy, so the pessimism of his friend was at once forgotten. Mrs. Thatcher opened her arms wide to both boys, while Merry, though less demonstrative, was equally cordial in her reception. "I'm awfully glad to see you," Billy said with a sincerity which could not be doubted, and grinning all over. "It seems ages since Mr. Cosden and Uncle Monty pushed me off the pier down at Bermuda." Merry laughed. "That was a splendid idea of yours, Billy, to miss the steamer, but I was afraid you couldn't work it." "S-ssh," Billy placed a finger on his lips. "Don't ever breathe that where Uncle Monty could hear you! I've made him believe it was a real accident." "We're dining at seven, boys," Mrs. Thatcher interrupted; "that will give us comfortable time to reach the theater." "Are we all going?" Phil asked. "All but your father; he's feeling too tired to-night." "Dad's well, isn't he?" Philip demanded quickly. "Yes,--but tired," his mother answered. "He's all right. Now run along and dress or you'll be late for dinner." On his way up-stairs Philip stopped in his father's room. "Hello, Dad!" he cried, pushing the door open unceremoniously. "Why, Dad,--you're not well! Mother said you were only tired." Thatcher was sitting in front of the great, old-fashioned desk which Philip had associated with business and mystery since his childhood days, and when the door was unexpectedly thrown open it disclosed him resting his head upon his hands. The papers which Philip usually saw spread out on the desk were lacking, so the position his father had taken was the result of habit rather than present necessity. It was the expression on the elder man's face which forced the exclamation. Thatcher rose quickly and stepped forward to greet his son. "Nonsense, boy! I'm all right," he exclaimed with an effort to speak lightly which did not escape Philip; "I'm just tired, as your mother said.--I didn't hear you come in or I would have been down-stairs to meet you." "You're not all right," Philip protested stoutly, still holding his father's hand and looking squarely into his face. "You don't need to do this with me, Dad; I'm a man now, and we ought to talk together like men.--Has this anything to do with what you wrote me about my allowance?" "We'll discuss it in the morning, Phil," Thatcher evaded. "Get dressed now, and later we'll talk things over like two men, as you say. It will help me to do that. Don't worry, boy; everything will come out all right." "That's a promise, Dad?"