of strong
reproach; but though Mr Neil's face was troubled, it was in nowise
repentant.

"I have been a boy in an office myself, Miss Philippa," he said gently,
"for two years--two long, miserable years--and I know--forgive me for
saying so--that there is an even greater temptation in being too short
of money. When a lad gets his first taste of independence it goes hard
with him if he cannot indulge in the little luxuries which his
companions enjoy; and the shops seem irresistible. I hoped that by
means of my gift Barney might be able to pay off his debts and start
afresh."

"You have been very generous and very forgiving, Mr Neil," said Steve;
"and we are much indebted to you. But what can we do this morning? I
must get to the office as soon as I can, for there are already two men
away. It won't do for me to lose my berth into the bargain."

Steve spoke with a tinge of bitterness, for in truth he found himself in
a painful position--the position of the elder brother in the parable.
He had never got into debt, nor betted, nor failed in a single instance
in his duty to his sisters, and it was a little hard to realise, as he
did this morning, that to each one of the four--Phil included--the
curly-headed prodigal was dearer than himself. He looked at the Hermit,
and asked anxiously, "Can you come with me?"

"It is what I was about to propose. I am my own master, and can give
all my time to the search. We had better go to the office first, and
try to discover who was the companion of the tobacconist's shop; then if
we get a clue I will follow it up."

"Right," said Steve, and went into the little hall, to find Hope already
brushing the coat which she had taken down from its peg. She helped him
to put it on, turned down the collar at the back, and let her hand rest
against his neck as she murmured a few low words: "Dear old Steve! What
should we do without you?" It was always Hope's way to divine a wound
and lay a healing hand upon it.

The two men went straight to the insurance office, and interviewed the
manager in his room. "Waxworks," as Barney had irreverently dubbed him,
was unaffectedly grieved to hear of the boy's flight, and repentant of
his own share in the catastrophe. "I liked the lad," he said. "One
could not help liking him. If I had consulted my own wishes only I
should have lectured him and let him stay on, but in a big place like
this it is necessary to keep a firm hand. I had overlook