It was a miserable evening that followed the exposure; the precursor of many and many miserable evenings in days to come. Mr. and Mrs. Channing, Hamish, Constance, and Arthur sat in the usual sitting-room when the rest had retired--sat in ominous silence. Even Hamish, with his naturally sunny face and sunny temper, looked gloomy as the grave. Was he deliberating as to whether he should show that all principles of manly justice were not quite dead within him, by speaking up at last, and clearing his wrongfully accused brother? But then--his father’s post--his mother’s home? all might be forfeited. Who can tell whether this was the purport of Hamish’s thoughts as he sat there in abstraction, away from the light, his head upon his hand. _He_ did not say. Arthur rose; the silence was telling upon him. “May I say good night to you, father?” “Have you nothing else to say?” asked Mr. Channing. “In what way, sir?” asked Arthur, in a low tone. “In the way of explanation. Will you leave me to go to my restless pillow without it? This is the first estrangement which has come between us.” What explanation _could_ he give? But to leave his father suffering in body and in mind, without attempt at it, was a pain hard to bear. “Father, I am innocent,” he said. It was all he could say; and it was spoken all too quietly. Mr. Channing gazed at him searchingly. “In the teeth of appearances?” “Yes, sir, in the teeth of appearances.” “Then why--if I am to believe you--have assumed the aspect of guilt, which you certainly have done?” Arthur involuntarily glanced at Hamish; the thought of his heart was, “_You_ know why, if no one else does;” and caught Hamish looking at him stealthily, under cover of his fingers. Apparently, Hamish was annoyed at being so caught, and started up. “Good night, mother. I am going to bed.” They wished him good night, and he left the room. Mr. Channing turned again to Arthur. He took his hand, and spoke with agitation. “My boy, do you know that I would almost rather have died, than live to see this guilt fall upon you?” “Oh, father, don’t judge me harshly!” he implored. “Indeed I am innocent.” Mr. Channing paused. “Arthur, you never, as I believe, told me a lie in your life. What is this puzzle?” “I am not telling a lie now.” “I am tempted to believe you. But why, then, act as if you were guilty? When those men came here to-day, you knew what they wanted; you resigned yourself, voluntarily, a prisoner. When Mr. Galloway questioned you privately of your innocence, you could not assert it.” Neither could he now in a more open way than he was doing. “Can you look me in the face and tell me, in all honour, that you know nothing of the loss of the note?” “All I can say, sir, is, that I did not take it or touch it.” “Nay, but you are equivocating!” exclaimed Mr. Channing. Arthur felt that he was, in some measure, and did not gainsay it. “Are you aware that to-morrow you may be committed for trial on the charge?”