passed across the room to a
window, which she threw up, and leaning her body out, looked
earnestly up and down the street. For a reaction like this Mr.
Howland was not prepared. He was, in fact, utterly confounded. Had
there been the smallest sign of irresolution on the part of his
wife--the nearest appearance of weakness in the will so suddenly
opposed to his own--he would have known what to do. But nothing of
this was apparent, and he hesitated about advancing again to the
contest, while there was so strong a doubt as to the issue.

For a long time Mr. Howland moved about the room, while his wife
continued to sit, listening, at the window.

"Come, Esther," said the former, at length, in a voice greatly
changed from its tone when he last spoke. "You had better retire. It
is useless to remain there. Besides, you are in danger of taking
cold. The air is damp and chilly."

"You can retire--I shall sleep none, to-night," was answered to
this. And then Mrs. Howland looked again from the window.
"Where--where can he have gone?" she said aloud, though speaking to
herself. "My poor, unhappy boy!"

Mr. Howland made no answer to this. He had no satisfying
intelligence to offer, nor any words of comfort that it would be of
avail to speak.

Thus the greater portion of that long remembered night was
passed--Mrs. Howland sitting at the window, vainly waiting and
watching for her son, and Mr. Howland walking the floor of the room,
his mind given up to troubled and rebuking thoughts. In his hardness
and self-will he had justified himself up to this in his course of
conduct pursued toward his children; but he was in doubt now. A
question as to whether he had been right or not had come into his
mind, and disturbed him to the very centre.

CHAPTER VIII.

WHEN Mr. Howland threatened his son with exclusion from the house,
if he were away at ten o'clock, Andrew's feelings were in a state of
reaction against his father, and he said to himself, in a rebellious
spirit--

"We'll see if you will."

But after growing cooler, he came into a better state of mind; and,
in view of consequences such as he knew would be visited on him,
decided not to come in contact with his father in this
particular--at least not for the present. If turned from his own
door at midnight, where was he to find shelter? This question he
could not answer to his own satisfaction.

After supper, on the evening succeeding that in which he had visited