Everybody seemed to have been against the boy. How could Dick have forged his grandfather's signature? Herresford, who was always down on Dick, had made an infamous charge--the result of a delusion in his dotage. It mattered little now, or nothing. Yet, everything mattered that touched the honor of his boy. It was disgraceful, disgusting, cruel. Netty had gone to her own room, weeping limpid, emotional tears, with no salt of sorrow in them. The mother was in the drawing-room, sobbing as though her heart would break. A chill swept over the house. In the kitchen, there was silence, broken by an occasional cry of grief. The rector pulled himself together, and went to his wife. He found her in a state of collapse on the hearth-rug, and lifted her up gently. He had no intention of telling her of Barnby's mistake, or of uttering words of comfort. In the thousand and one recollections that surged through his brain touching his boy, words seemed superfluous. He put his arm tenderly around the queenly wife of whom he was so proud, for she was more precious to him than any child--and led her back to his study. He drew forward a little footstool by the fire, which was a favorite seat with her, and placed her there at his feet, while he sat in the tub chair; and she rested between his knees, in the old way of years ago, when they were lovers, and gossiped over the fire after all the house was quiet and little golden-haired Dick was fast asleep upstairs. And thus they sat now, till the fire burned out, and the keen, frosty air penetrated the room, chilling them to the bone. "Grieving will not bring him back, darling," murmured the broken man. "Let us to bed. Perhaps, a little sleep will bring us comfort and strength to face the morrow, and attend to our affairs as usual." She arose wearily, and asked in quite a casual manner, as if trying to avoid the matter of their sorrow: "What did Barnby want?" "Oh, he came with some crazy story about--some checks Dick cashed for you, which your father repudiates. The old man must be going mad!" "Checks?" she asked huskily, and her face was drawn with terror. "Checks for quite large amounts," said the rector. "Two or five thousand dollars, or something like that. The old man's memory must be failing him. He's getting dangerous. I always thought his animosity against Dick was more assumed than real, but to launch such a preposterous accusation is beyond enduring." "Does he accuse Dick?" she asked, in a strained voice; "Dick, who is dead?" "Yes, darling. But don't think of such nonsense. Barnby himself saw the absurdity of discussing it. Dick has had no money except what you got for him." She made no reply, but with bowed head walked unsteadily out of the room. CHAPTER XII A DIFFICULT POSITION