As he clasped her in the dark, he could feel her trembling. He held her tightly to him, laying his face against hers on the pillow. Again they both were listening. “What makes you so frightened?” He whispered the question. “Always thinking, always thinking---- of the future and what may happen.” She commenced to sob, pressing her forehead against his breast. He tried to soothe her. “You mustn't, Pepperminta. You mustn't really; it hurts. I'll think for you. I always have. Now close your eyes and get some rest.” And she closed her eyes and lay very tense. Hours and hours later London began to growl. Presently the door of the servants' bedroom opened; the stairs creaked; the house was filled with stealthy sounds. At last she drowsed. When her husband had tiptoed out to his bath, she rose hastily and commenced to dress. She must get down before him. He must be spared if the message was there; she must read it first. The dining-room was in dusk these November mornings. At the end of the room the fire burnt red and before it Kay and Peter warmed their hands. Not until she had run through the letters did she greet them. Then, for their sakes, she tried to appear cheerful. Barrington, on entering, cast one swift look in her direction and realized that the end was not yet. Absentmindedly they took their places at the table, scarcely thankful for this respite from certainty. The children soon apprehended that all was not well; their high clear voices were hushed--they spoke in whispers. Peter was fourteen; he had guessed the meaning of blank spaces on the walls from which some of the favorite pictures had vanished. The Dutch landscape by Cuyp was still there above the blue couch, against the background of dark oak-paneling. Across its glass the flickering reflection of the fire danced, lighting up the placid burgher as he walked with his ladies on the bank of the gray canal. Peter noticed how his father's eyes rested on it--a sure sign that he was troubled. Almost by stealth Peter would push back his chair and nudge his sister. Miss Effie Jacobite gave her lessons in the mornings; on his way to school he had to leave Kay at her house. Shouldering his satchel, he would lead her out into the misty streets; then at last he would dare to raise his voice in laughter. At the departure of the children, Barrington would break off from the train of thought he had been following, and was incessantly following: _had he done right by Ocky?_ The door would bang; through the long dark day Nan would sit alone, and speculate and wonder. What was happening? Had the smash been postponed? Had Ocky wriggled round the corner by borrowing secretly from other people's friends? Billy searched the faces of his business acquaintances and Nan the faces of their Topbury circle in an effort to make them tell.