hat young Eddy Carroll was given to romancing in more respects than
one, and had not told the truth to Anderson when he had been asked if
his family would feel anxious at his non-return to dinner. Eddy knew
quite well that they would be anxious. In spite of a certain
temperamental aversion to worry, the boy's mother and sisters were
wont to become quite actively agitated if he failed to appear at
expected times and seasons. Eddy Carroll, in the course of a short
life, had contrived to find the hard side of many little
difficulties. He had gotten into divers forms of mischief; he had met
with many accidents. He had been almost drowned; he had broken an
arm; he had been hit in the forehead by a stone thrown by another boy.

When Arthur Carroll reached home that afternoon he found his wife in
hysterical tears, his sister trying to comfort her, and the two
daughters and the maid were scouring the town in search of the boy.
School was out, and he had still not come home. Carroll heard the
news before he reached home, from the coachman who met him at the
station.

"Mr. Eddy did not come home this noon," said the man, with much
deference. He was full of awe at his employer, being a simple sort,
and this was his second place, his first having been with the salt of
the earth who made no such show as Carroll. He reasoned that virtue
and appearances must increase according to the same ratio. "Mrs.
Carroll sent me to the school this noon," said the man, further, "and
the ladies are very much worried. The young ladies and Marie are out
trying to find him." Marie was the maid, a Hungarian girl.

"Well, drive home as fast as you can," said Carroll, with a sigh. He
reflected that his drive was spoiled; he also reflected that when the
boy was found he should be punished. Yet he did not look out of
temper, and, in fact, was not. It was in reality almost an
impossibility for Arthur Carroll to be out of temper with one of his
own family.

When Carroll reached home his wife came running down the stairs in a
long, white tea-gown, and flung her arms around his neck. "Oh,
Arthur!" she sobbed out. "What do you think has happened? What do you
think?"

Carroll raised his wife's lovely face, all flushed and panting with
grief and terror like a child's, and kissed it softly. "Nothing, Amy;
nothing, dear," he said. "Don't, my darling. You will make yourself
ill. Nothing has happened."

His sister Anna's voice, clear and strained, came from t