The evening wore on; the strains of the music sounded merrily along the halls; dancing was in full swing,—everybody seemed to be enjoying the occasion, save Colonel Witham. He had at least conceded to the occasion the courtesy of a black frock coat and an immaculate white tie, but he was plainly ill at ease. He stood in the office, the door of which was open into the parlour, his hands twisting nervously behind his back, while he glanced, with no good humour in his expression, now at the blaze of lights in the parlour, and now at the clock, which, however, even under his impatient gaze, only ticked along in its most provokingly methodical fashion. The outer door opened and in walked young Joe Warren, recognized by Colonel Witham as one of the plagues of his summer existence. “Good evening, Colonel Witham,” said young Joe, with studied politeness, and in a tone that ostensibly anticipated an equally cordial response. “Good evening!” snapped the colonel. “Good evening, Colonel Witham,” chimed Arthur Warren, close at his brother’s heels. The colonel responded gruffly. “Good evening, colonel,” came an equally cordial greeting from Tom and Bob, and from George Warren, smiling at Colonel Witham, as though he had extended them a hearty invitation to be present. The colonel snorted impatiently, while the colour in his red face deepened. He did not respond to their salutations. The boys seated themselves comfortably in the office chairs, and listened to the music. “You needn’t think you’re going to get Henry Burns to go off with you,” the colonel said, finally. “It’s half-past nine now, and his bedtime is ten o’clock. I wonder where he is.” Arthur Warren chuckled quietly to himself. He could have told the colonel just where Henry Burns was at that moment; that he was busily engaged in conveying a certain basket of supplies from outside the kitchen window, up a pair of back stairs, to his room on the second floor above. “You go and keep an eye on Colonel Witham,” he had said to Arthur Warren, “and if he starts to look for me, you go to the door and whistle.” Which accounted for the sudden appearance of all the Warrens and Tom and Bob in the presence of Colonel Witham. Fifteen minutes elapsed, and one by one they had all disappeared. “Good riddance,” was the colonel’s mental ejaculation when he found them gone. Great would have been his amazement and indignation could he have but seen them, a few minutes later, seated comfortably on the bed in Henry Burns’s room. It was approaching ten o’clock. “Where’s Bob?” asked Henry Burns, as the boys quietly entered, and he made the door fast behind them. “Hm!” said Tom, shaking his head regretfully. “It’s a sad thing about Bob. It’s too bad, but I don’t think he will be here, after all.” “Why, what’s the matter?” exclaimed Henry Burns, with surprise. “He isn’t hurt, is he? I saw him a few hours ago, and he seemed all right.”