"If you love me," she whispered, "will you ask no more questions of me--or of anybody? They will not bring your father back. They may only implicate--my ather--just as he is coming through his hard, hard struggles. Can you not leave it in the hands of Providence--for my sake? It is all I ask; and I think--if you do--it may all come right--some day." "With you?" he cried. "With you and me?" "Who knows?" she answered. "You may not care for me so long; but when there are no more mysteries--well, yes--perhaps." "Shall I ever see you meanwhile?" "Not until there are no more mysteries--or quarrels." "Yet you will not let me try to clear them up." "I want you to leave them in the hands of Providence--for my sake." "It is hard!" "But if you love me you will promise." * * * * * The cab was still waiting in the mist. Harry sprang into it, wild with unhidden grief, as one fresh from a death-bed. His perplexity was returning--his conscience was beginning to gnaw--yet one difficulty was solved. He had promised. * * * * * A hansom stood at the curb below the flats; the porter was taking down the luggage; a lady and a gentleman were on the stairs. "I hope, for every reason, that we shall find him in," the gentleman was saying. "If not I must wait a little, for I feel that a few words from me may be of value to him at this juncture, quite apart from the little proposal I have to make." "I would not count on his accepting it," the lady ventured to observe. "My dear Mary----" Uncle Spencer got no further. Harry's arms were round his mother's neck. And in a few moments they were all three in the flat, where the porter's wife had the fires lighted and everything comfortable in response to a telegram from Mrs. Ringrose. "But we must have the gas lit," cried the lady. "I want to look at you, my dear, and I cannot in this fog." "It'll keep, mother, it'll keep," said Harry, who had his own reasons for not courting a close inspection. "I quite agree with Henry," said Mr. Walthew. "To light the gas before it is actually dark is an extravagance which _I_ cannot afford. I do not permit it in my house, Mary." Harry promptly struck a match. "Come, my boy, and let me have a look at you," said Mrs. Ringrose when the blinds were drawn. She drew his face close to hers. "Let him say what he likes," she whispered: "I have been with them all this time. Never mind, my darling," she cried aloud; "it must have been a horrid place, and I am thankful to have you back." Mr. Walthew prepared to say what he liked, his pulpit the hearthrug, and his theme the fiasco of the day before.