Franz turned back alone—but not to retrace his steps. Instead he rambled through the streets of the sleeping town—to find himself—he knew not how, a dozen times beneath her window. So he wore out the night, and when at last the day broke, it found him going in the direction of his home. VIII Philip was looking from his window out upon the street where the first snows of winter lay slowly melting in the sunshine, when a cab rattled up through the mud and slush. It stopped before the house and his interest became active. “It's the saintly Anson! This is, indeed, penance for my sins.” Almost with the thought Anson stepped from the cab and was followed by a gentleman who had no small trouble in wriggling through the narrow door. Philip, with a groan of disgust, recognized the junior member of the firm employing his brother. “As if Anson were not affliction enough,” he thought, “he brings Mr. Hale to bore us—especially me, by prosy recitals of his own worth.” He promptly put himself beyond his brother's range of vision, as he wished to avoid the necessity of going down-stairs until the last moment. He resumed his work, and for an hour or more wrote steadily on, then he threw down his pen and was resting his eyes, his hands before them, when the door opened and his mother entered the room. He knew who it was without looking up, since she was the only one of all the family who ever invaded his privacy. “What is it, mother?” he asked. “May I see you, Philip? Are you very busy?” There was something in her voice that caused him to glance around quickly. “Why, what is it, mother?” He left his chair and went to her side. He saw that her face was red and swollen as though from much weeping. “What is it, dear?” He put his arms about her. “Does Anson bring bad news of any sort?” By a sudden gesture she freed herself from his embrace, covering her face with her apron. “Oh! Philip, it's awful.” And she began to cry softly. “But what is it—why don't you tell me?” He tried to draw the apron away that he might see her face again, but she resisted his gentle force. “What is it, dear? Is it Anson—is he ill?” “It's worse than that! Oh! a million times worse!” At her words the desperate sickening feeling begotten of some great and unknown calamity, the forerunner of actual knowledge, came into his heart. “You must tell me, mother, or how can I ever help you?” “I shall, only wait a minute until I am calm, for you must know—and you must save him!” “I save him! What do you mean? What has happened to him?” “You won't blame him? Promise me you won't be hard, now before I tell you. That you won't say of think unkind things of him? Promise me, promise me, Philip!” For he had hesitated. “I promise, mother, for your sake.” “No! no! for his own.” “For his sake then. It is all one.” “It is difficult to tell even you, Philip.”