Arriving at his uncle’s house at last, he stopped for a few minutes to compose himself and calm the excitement which he knew must be plainly visible in his face, and then with all the nonchalance of which he was master, he opened the door and went in. He stopped in the hall to hang up his cap, and would have given anything he possessed, if he could have found some plausible excuse for going at once to his room. There was a merry family gathering in the back parlor, and he did not want to go in there. Some one was playing on the piano, and the rest were engaged in most agreeable conversation, if one might judge by the peals of laughter that now and then rang through the house. Clarence was hardly fit to go among them, he told himself as he glanced at the little mirror in the hat-rack. His hair was disheveled, his face flushed, and his boots and clothes were covered with dust. While he was making some hasty improvements in his appearance, his Aunt Mary came into the hall. She had heard him enter and came out to meet him. “Come in here, truant, and give an account of yourself,” said she, pleasantly. “What do you mean by deserting us every night in this unceremonious manner? Clarence,” said she, shaking her finger at him, and sinking her voice almost to a whisper, “you’ve been smoking again!” “I know it,” said the boy. “Do you find a cigar so much more agreeable than the society of your friends?” “No, ma’am; but I have been in the habit of it so long, you know; and it is hard to give it up.” “I suppose it is; but persevere and remember that ‘he that ruleth his spirit is better than he that taketh a city.’ Where’s Don? I thought he was with you!” “I am sure I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since supper.” “Why that is very strange,” said Mrs. Gordon. “He has been out for the last two or three nights until nine or ten o’clock, and I don’t know what to think about it. Come in, now. Lucy has been waiting to practise the Sharpshooter’s Waltz with you.” Much against his will Clarence was led into the parlor, and the curious glances which all his relatives directed toward him as he entered made him feel very uncomfortable. His uncle thought he acted ill at ease; Bert’s mental comment was that he had been running a race with somebody; and Marshall told himself that he must have been rolled in a dust heap. Clarence could tell by the expression on their faces pretty nearly what they were thinking about, and it was with great effort that he aroused himself sufficiently to take any interest in what was going on. He played several tunes on his flute while his cousin Lucy accompanied him on the piano, and as soon as he could do so with any show of reason, he bade the company good-night and went to bed.