Down-stairs the girls and Mrs. Southard were making ready for Anson's departure. It had been arranged that he should leave at once. They moved about noiselessly, talking in whispers, the girls wildly curious, yet not venturing to question their mother. The whole atmosphere was as though some one had died. It pervaded the entire house. Where he sat in his room, Philip felt it. In fancy he saw his mother packing Anson's trunk—saw her tears fall silently as she folded away his clothes—and as his fancy saw it, so he knew it must be in reality. Despite the load that lay upon him crushing him to earth, he was glad she had been spared the greater humiliation and disgrace that but for him would have come to them. The realization of this lessened the extent of his own anguish somewhat, at least it was a consolation to feel that he had shielded her, no matter at what cost. It was dark when his mother finally knocked at his door and told him that supper was ready. “I'm not hungry,” he answered. She opened the door and came in, saying in some surprise as she did so, for his lamp was unlighted: “Why, Philip, what's wrong?” “Nothing, dear, nothing. Why do you ask?” “You don't begrudge the money that kept us all from shame—you don't regret that?” She put her hand upon his shoulder. “I regret nothing. For you I would have done a hundred times what I did to-day, and counted it a small recompense for what you have given me all these years.” “You mean it, Philip?” “Certainly. I was sitting here in the dusk thinking it over—thinking how glad I am that it was in my power to do this for you—and him. No matter what the outcome may be, I shall not regret it for one instant.” Her hand caressed his cheek softly: “Won't you come down to supper?” “What's the use? I couldn't eat now.” “But you will not see Anson again. It may be years before he comes back to us. Do come down.” “I shall go with him to the train. Won't that do just as well? I wish to think a while longer, here in the dark by myself.” “I know he will be delighted to have you,” she said. “Poor Anson! It has been a terrible blow to him.” Philip smiled queerly to himself. He doubted the delight Anson would derive from his company just then, but he made no response. “It seems unfair to ask any more of you,” his mother said with reluctance, “but Anson is almost penniless. If you could only help just a little it might make it easier for him.” Philip gathered up the bills that still lay on the table where he had thrown them. “Here are one or two hundred dollars,” he said, “he may as well have them. They are of no use to me, and you will feel so much better to have him go, if you know he has something to fall back on!” She took the money gratefully. “He has promised to repay all he has had from you, so don't worry about not getting it back.” “Ah! dear,” and he laughed, “that does not worry me in the least. I don't bother about what he will or will not do.”