“’Tother bank is open. Maybe the judge will help out as Mr. Grey helped him,” she heard someone saying. But she knew better than to expect that. Judge White would not help her father, and could not now if he would. It was too late for that. The crash had come. Failure was declared. The mob was there howling for their money, and she was left alone to battle with the wild storm without a sympathetic face or word to cheer her. If the White Bank was open Herbert was probably there, or would be soon, and then he _will_ come, she said to herself over and over again as the minutes passed and still he did not come. Where was he? Breakfast at the White House was always late, and the family were at the table when the news reached them, brought by the servant, who, after passing the coffee, said: “The Grey Bank has burst and the street is full of people.” “What!” both the Judge and Herbert exclaimed together, the former putting his coffee down so quickly that some of it was spilled on the cloth. The girl repeated her news with additions and told how she knew it. There could be no mistake, and although he would not like to acknowledge it, the Judge was only conscious of a stir of exultation, such as mean natures feel when misfortune has befallen a rival. He certainly did not seem greatly disturbed as he said: “Bust at last, has he? I told you so. I knew he couldn’t go on cutting such a swell and kicking up such a dust as he did yesterday. I haven’t got it out of my eyes and throat yet.” The dust of the Grey carriage was the last grievance, and the Judge dwelt upon it, while Herbert looked at him in surprise. “Father,” he said, at last, “never mind the dust. Think of the trouble Mr. Grey is in; can’t you help him?” “Can’t I help him?” the Judge repeated. “Help him—how? Pay his debts? No, sir! He has made his bed and must lie on it!” “But he helped us,” Herbert continued. “I know he did,” his father replied, “but played right into his own pocket. We were honest, and not to blame for the run, while I’ll be hanged if I think he is honest. I wonder how Sheldon feels now. Serves him right, and the rest of ’em. I don’t believe he’ll pay ten cents on a dollar. He can’t, spending as he has—dressing up his wife and that girl. I am sorry for her; but s’posin’ your tomfooling with her had amounted to something, where’d you be now.” “Just where I’m going,” Herbert said, leaving the room and going for his wheel, on which he rode rapidly to Mr. Grey’s house, expecting to find Louie there. The maid told him she was at the bank, and that Mrs. Grey was in hysterics, with two physicians attending her. Herbert started at once for the bank, where he heard a wonderful story.