“So they say. The Lord help us, what shall we do? Willie’s outfit just paid for, and not a penny to the fore. Oh, my poor man!” “It’s very serious news,” their father said; “but let us hope that both for his sake and our own it may not be true.” “Ill news is aye true,” said Mrs. Buchanan, with a sound of something like a sob. Why should mamma be so troubled about old Mr. Anderson, the children said to themselves, giving each other a look? “That is just want of faith, my dear,” he replied. “Oh, I’ve no doubt it’s want of faith! it’s all in God’s hands, and He can bring light out of darkness, I know; but oh! William, it’s not always that He thinks fit to do that! You know as well as me. And if this time it should not be His will?” “Mary,” he said, “let us not forestall the evil; perhaps it will never come; perhaps there will be a way out of it--at the worst we must just bear it, my dear.” “Oh, I know that, I know that!” she cried, with a sound of tears in her voice. “You gave your word to pay it if he died, immediately thereafter, that there might be no talking. Wasn’t that the bargain?” “That was the bargain,” he said. “But we never thought it was to come like this, at the worst moment, just after the siller is gone for Willie’s outfit.” “Mary, Mary, it is worse for him than for us.” “Do you think so, do you think so?” she cried, “and you a minister! I do not think that. He is an old man, and a good man, and if all we believe is true, it will be a happy change for him. Who has he to leave behind him? Na, he will be glad to go. But us with our young family! Oh, the power of that filthy siller; but for that, what happier folk could be, William, than just you and me?” “We must be thankful for that, Mary,” said the minister, with a quiver. “We might have had worse things than the want of money; we might have had sickness or trouble in our family, and instead of that they’re all well, and doing well.” “Thank God for that!” mamma said, fervently, and then there was a pause. “I will have to go at once to the man of business, and tell him,” father said; “that was in the bargain. There was no signing of paper, but I was to go and tell; that was part of the bargain.” “And a very hard part,” his wife cried, with a long sigh. “It is like sharpening the sword to cut off your own head. But, maybe,” she said, with a little revival of courage, “Mr. Morrison is not a hard man; maybe he will give you time.” “Maybe our old friend will pull through,” papa said, slowly. “That would be the best of all,” she said, but not in a hopeful tone. And presently they heard her shut the door of the study, and go down-stairs again, with something very different from the flying step with which she came.