“I don't know, mother; he is not in the garden,” answered the girl, crossing the room to her own particular chair. Sidney rose from his seat, and going to the window, sent his loud clear whistle away into the night. His broad figure remained motionless for some minutes, almost filling up the window; then he silently resumed his seat. Mrs. Carew smoothed down the silken book-marker, and began reading in a low voice. It is to be feared that the Psalmist's words of joy were not heard with understanding ears that night. A short prayer followed; softly and melodiously Mrs. Carew asked for blessings upon the bowed heads around her, and the servants left the room. “Have you not seen Christian since you went to see Mrs. Sender, Hilda?” asked Molly, at once. “No,” replied Hilda, arranging the music into something like order upon the piano. “He went out about half an hour ago, in answer to your whistle.” Hilda turned her head as if about to reply hastily, but checked herself, and resumed her task of setting the music in order. “How could I whistle,” she asked gently, “when I was in the kitchen doling out medicated cotton-wool to Mrs. Sender?” Molly looked puzzled. “Did _you_ whistle, Sidney?” she asked. “I--no; I was half-asleep over a law-book in my own room.” “I expect he has gone for a stroll, and forgotten the time,” suggested Mrs. Carew reassuringly, as she sat down to work again. “But what about the whistle; are you sure you heard it, Molly?” asked Hilda, speaking rather more quickly than was habitual with her. She walked towards the window and drew aside the curtain, keeping her back turned towards the room. “Yes,” answered Molly uneasily. “Yes--I heard it, and so did he, for he went out at once.” Sidney stood awkwardly with his shoulder against the mantelpiece, listening in a half-hearted way to his sisters' conversation. With a heavy jerk he threw himself upright and slowly crossed the room. He stood for some moments immediately behind Hilda without touching her. Then he raised his hand and with gentle, almost caressing pressure round her waist, he made her step aside so that he could pass out. He was a singularly undemonstrative man, rarely giving way to what he considered the weakness of a caress. Fortunately, however, for their own happiness, his womenfolk understood him, and especially between himself and Hilda there existed a peculiar unspoken sympathy. In the ordinary way he would have mumbled-- “Le'mme out!” On this occasion he touched her waist gently, and the caress almost startled her. It seemed like a confession that he shared the vague anxiety which she concealed so well.