She turned to the door: “I shall call you then when he is ready.” And she left him to his solitude. Philip wondered when he was once more alone what his mother's action would have been had she known what that money was to do for him. On the whole he concluded it was just as well she did not know. He became reflective. With practise it might be possible for him to acquire a habit which would enable him to derive a melancholy pleasure from being miserable. He laughed aloud. “I never knew that farce and tragedy touched hands,” he thought. It was quite late when his mother called from the foot of the stairs: “Anson is ready, Philip. If you will come, he will be so pleased to have you go down to the station with him.” He went down and found her waiting for him in the hall. “You will be kind,” she whispered anxiously. “You won't say anything hard, when you are alone with him? Poor boy! he feels it so keenly. You will be considerate of him?” “Yes, dear. Don't distress yourself. I shall be as kind as I know how.” They went into the sitting-room where Anson was bidding good-by to his sisters. Philip had no wish to witness his mother's farewells. He picked up a valise his brother was to carry with him, saying: “I shall start on ahead, Anson.” “All right. I shall be along presently,” his brother answered. Philip escaped into the open air. Soon he heard Anson coming, waited until he caught up, and the two brothers, without a word, set off for the station very much as though they were trying to run away from each other, but had foolishly elected to go in the same direction while about it. Their destination was reached before either had framed a speech diplomatic enough for the occasion. Anson went to ascertain how much time he had and returned almost immediately to say that he had ten minutes left. “But,” he added, “you needn't wait on my account.” “I'll see you off. I told mother I would.” “Of course—if you like. I thought you might want to go home.” They fell to pacing back and forth across the platform, still apparently trying to get away from each other. Neither spoke, and it was only when the train rushed in with a trailing echo of sound from out the darkness, that Anson found courage to say hurriedly from the door of his car: “Mother told you, didn't she, that I would pay up all I have had from you? I intend to and shall, but I can't do it at once.” The whistle of the engine broke in upon him. “I'll do it sure, Philip, I won't forget.” “There is no haste,” his brother answered. “Don't sacrifice yourself because of me.” He extended his hand. “Good-by and good luck to you.” The train began to move. “It was awfully good of you. You have done a lot for me. I——” The train bore him swiftly away, but standing as he did on the rear platform of the last car, the door at his back, Philip saw him wave his handkerchief and he responded in a like fashion, wishing he were certain Anson could see him as plainly as he saw Anson.