At least--" "I understand," said Anna, nodding.
"What do you care whether the butcher or the egg-woman are paid or not, when all the boy we've got is lost ?" asked Mrs.Carroll, looking up into her husband's face with the tears rolling over her cheeks.
"That's so," said Anna, and she gave the roll of notes a toss away from her with a passionate gesture.

"Arthur, where do you suppose he is ?" The notes fell over the banisters into the hall below.
Carroll watched them touch the floor as he answered, "My dear sister, I don't know, but boys have played truant before, and survived it; and I have strong hopes of our dear boy." Carroll's voice, though droll, was exceedingly soft and soothing.

He put an arm again around his wife, drew her close to him, and pressed her head against his shoulder.

"Dear, you will be ill," he said.

"The boy is all right." "I am sure this time he is shot," moaned Mrs.Carroll.
"My dear Amy!" "Now, Arthur, you can laugh," said his sister, coming down the stairs, the embroidered ruffles of her white cambric skirt fluttering around her slender ankles in pink silk stockings, and her little feet thrust into French-heeled slippers, one of which had an enormous bow and buckle, the other nothing at all.