r
deepened as he looked up at the light in his father's window.

"I'll slip out again to-night, and see life," he muttered doggedly
to himself, approaching the door. "The more I'm bullied at home, the
oftener I'll go out on the sly."

This rebellious speech was occasioned by the recollection of a domestic
scene, which had contributed, early that evening, to swell the list of
the Tribulations of Zack. Mr. Thorpe had moral objections to Mr. Blyth's
profession, and moral doubts on the subject of Mr. Blyth himself--these
last being strengthened by that gentleman's own refusal to explain
away the mystery which enveloped the birth and parentage of his adopted
child. As a necessary consequence, Mr. Thorpe considered the painter
to be no fit companion for a devout young man; and expressed, severely
enough, his unmeasured surprise at finding that his son had accepted an
invitation from a person of doubtful character. Zack's rejoinder to
his father's reproof was decisive, if it was nothing else. He denied
everything alleged or suggested against his friend's reputation--lost
his temper on being sharply rebuked for the "indecent vehemence" of
his language--and left the paternal tea-table in defiance, to go and
cultivate the Fine Arts in the doubtful company of Mr. Valentine Blyth.

"Just in time, sir," said the page, grinning at his young master as he
opened the door. "It's on the stroke of eleven."

Zack muttered something savage in reply, which it is not perhaps
advisable to report. The servant secured the lock and bolts, while he
put his hat on the hall table, and lit his bedroom candle.

* * * * *

Rather more than an hour after this time--or, in other words, a little
past midnight--the door opened again softly, and Zack appeared on the
step, equipped for his nocturnal expedition.

He hesitated, as he put the key into the lock from outside, before he
closed the door behind him. He had never done this on former occasions;
he could not tell why he did it now. We are mysteries even to ourselves;
and there are times when the Voices of the future that are in us, yet
not ours, speak, and make the earthly part of us conscious of their
presence. Oftenest our mortal sense feels that they are breaking their
dread silence at those supreme moments of existence, when on the choice
between two apparently trifling alternatives hangs suspended the whole
future of a life. And thus it was now with the young man who stood on