"Then you have done something wrong," said Effie, loosening her hold of her brother's arm and backing to a little distance. He could scarcely see her face in the ever increasing darkness, but he noticed the change in her voice. There was an indignant note of pained and astonished youth in it. Effie had never come face to face with the graver sins of life; the word "prison" stunned her, she forgot pity for a moment in indignation.

"George," she said, with a sort of gasp, "father left mother to you,—in a sort of way he gave her up to you,—and you have done wrong; you have sinned."

"You talk just like a girl," said George; "you jump at conclusions. You, an innocent girl living in the shelter of home, know as little about the temptations which we young fellows have to meet out in82 the world, as you know of the heavens above you. My God! Effie, it is a hard world—it is hard, hard to keep straight in it. Yes, I have done wrong—I know it—and father gave mother to me. If you turn away from me, Effie, I shall go to the bad—I shall go to the worst of all; there will not be a chance for me if you turn from me."

The tone of despair in his voice changed Effie's frame of mind in a moment. She ran up to him and put her arms round his neck.

"I won't turn from you, poor George," she said. "It did shock me for a moment—it frightened me rather more than I can express; but perhaps I did not hear you aright, perhaps you did not say the word 'prison.' You don't mean to say that unless you get that impossible sum of money you will have to go to prison, George?"

"Before God, it is true," said George. "I cannot, I won't tell you why, but it is as true as I stand here."

"Then you will kill our mother," said Effie.

"I know that."

"And father left her to you. George, it cannot be. I must think of something—my head is giddy—we have not any money to spare. It will be the hardest fight in the world to keep the children from starvation on that hundred pounds a year, but something must be done. I'll go and speak to the trustees."

"Who are the trustees?" asked George. He rose again to his feet. There was a dull sort of patience in his words.

"Mr. Watson is one,—you know the Watsons, father has always been so good to them,—and our clergyman, Mr. Jellet, is the other. Yes, I must go and speak to them; but what am I to say?"

"You must not betray me," said George. "If you mention that I want the money, all will be up with83 me. In any case, there may be suspicion. Men of the world like Mr. Watson and Mr. Jellet would immediately guess there was something wrong if a lad required such a large sum of money. You must not tell them that I want it."

"How can I help it? Oh, everything is swimming round before my eyes; I feel as if my head would burst."

"Think of me," said George—"think of the load I have got to bear."

Effie glanced up at him. His attitude and his words puzzled and almost revolted her. After a time she said coldly:

"What hour are you leaving in the morning?"

"I want to catch the six-o'clock train to town. This is good-by, Effie; I shan't see you before I go. Remember, there are six weeks before anything can happen. If anyone can save me, you can. It is worth a sacrifice to keep our mother from dying."

"Yes, it would kill her," said Effie. "Good-night now, George. I cannot think nor counsel you at present; I feel too stunned. The blow you have given me has come so unexpectedly, and it—it is so awful. But I'll get up to see you off in the morning. Some thought may occur to me during the night."

"Very well," said George. He walked slowly down the garden, and, entering the house, went up to his own room. Effie did not go in for a long time. She was alone now, all alone with the stars. She was standing in the middle of the path. Often and often her father's steps had trodden this path. He used to pace here when he was troubled about a sick patient, when his anxiety about her mother arose to a feverish pitch. Now his daughter stood on the same spot, while a whirl of troubled thoughts passed84 through her brain. It had been her one comfort, since that awful moment when Dorothy had told her that her father was gone, to feel that George, in a measure at least, took that father's place.

George had always been her favorite brother; they were very nearly the same age—Effie was only two years younger than George; long ago George had been good to the little sister—they had never quarreled, they had grown up always the best and warmest of friends. Their love had been true—as true as anything in all the world.

George had gone to London, and the first tiny spark of discontent had visited Effie's heart. She would be so lonely without her brother. It was so fine for him to go out into life, her own horizon seemed so narrow. Then Dorothy came, and they had made friends, and Dorothy told her what some women did with their lives.

Effie had been fired with a sudden desire to follow in Dorothy's steps; then had followed the dark cloud which seemed to swallow up her wishes, and all that was best out of her life. George, at least, remained. Dear, brave, manl............