self, but Phil looked at Steve's stern face and dared not show any
amusement. "Where _is_ Barney!" she asked. "Perhaps he does not like
to come in until we have read our letters. Call him, Theo dear, will
you! His breakfast will be cold."

Theo stepped across the narrow passage and tapped at the door of
Barney's room, waited a moment, opened it gently, then came running
back, all scared and breathless.

"He is not there! The bed has not been slept in. Oh Phil, what does it
mean?"

But she knew what it meant; they all knew. There was no need for
explanation. Together they crushed into the little room and looked
around with haggard eyes. Theo had a dreary sense of having been
through it all before; and indeed it was an old, old story, even to the
torn-up papers on the hearth and the letter of farewell on the
dressing-table. It was addressed to Philippa, and she read it aloud,
with short, gasping breaths:

"`I have lost my situation, and have got into debt, and lost money
betting on races, and the best thing I can do is to take myself off and
not trouble you any longer.--I can't stay here to be a shame and a
burden.'--[Oh Barney!]--`If you and Steve will pay off my bills, you can
look upon the money as my share in what was left. I will never trouble
you for any more.'"

Here came a great dash as if the writer had intended to end the letter,
but at the bottom of the sheet were a few words scribbled in uncertain
letters: "Good-bye, Phil. I'll try to keep straight for your sake."

Philippa looked up; agony was written on her face, but her first words
were of thanksgiving. "Thank God! He is alive and well; he will do
himself no harm. My poor boy! We must find him and bring him home
again."

"Betting!" echoed Steve. "Debts! I can't understand it. We kept him
supplied with pocket-money; he had a comfortable home; what more did he
want? I don't wonder he was ashamed to face us, but it is a cowardly
thing to run away from the consequences of his wrong-doing and bring
fresh anxiety upon us. I wouldn't have believed it of Barney."

"It is my fault! Blame me; I drove him to it," said Madge desperately.

Her sisters stared at her in amazement, while she told the history of
the last afternoon and evening, omitting nothing, extenuating nothing,
repeating her bitter words with unflinching honesty. Only her face
betrayed the inward agony of remorse, but that was eloquent enough, and
when she had finished