Effie did all in her power to soothe her mother. It was past the hour for her return to St. Joseph's, but under the present circumstances she could not give this matter a thought. Mrs. Staunton was strung up to a terrible condition of nervousness. She walked faster and faster about the room; she scarcely spoke aloud, but muttered words under her breath which no one could hear. At every footfall on the stairs she started. Sometimes she went to the door and flung it open—sometimes she went to the window and pressed her face against the glass. Darkness set in, and the lamps were lit in the street. Katie went to the window to pull down the blinds.

"No, don't touch them," said Mrs. Staunton fretfully—she still kept staring out into the street. Presently she called Effie to her.

"Doesn't that man turning the corner look something like George?" she exclaimed.

Effie looked eagerly.

"No, that's not George," she said.

"Agnes, you have better sight," called Mrs. Staunton to her next daughter; "come and watch with me—we are sure to see him soon. It can't be that he has gone away for the night—for the whole night. Isn't that him? Look at that man,—that one crossing the road—that one in the waterproof. Oh, how hard it is raining! If George is out much longer, he'll be drenched to the skin. Aggie, look; and you, Katie, can't you watch? Now, that man, isn't that George?"

"No, no, mother!" answered the poor children, in affright.

Mrs. Staunton kept on making exclamations. Again and again she cried out hopefully that surely George was coming now; but George himself never really appeared. Effie knew that she would get into hopeless disgrace at St. Joseph's. No matter! she could not leave her mother at such a moment. Each instant she became more anxious about her. She called Agnes aside, and told her that she had put a stop to the late dinner, and also to the extra attendance, but as probably some dinner had been ordered for that evening, she had better go down and bring it up, as Mrs. Staunton must be forced to eat at any cost.

Agnes tripped out of the room, and presently returned with a couple of pork chops and some baked potatoes. She flung them down on the table, exclaiming that the tray was heavy. She looked cross, and evidently seemed to think that Effie was making a great fuss over nothing.

"Why can't George be away for a single night without everyone getting into such a state?" she murmured.

Effie took the tray from her and gave her a look of reproach. She laid the cloth herself, and made the table look as pretty as she could. She then went to her mother, drew her gently but firmly away from the window, and, making her sit down, tried to coax her to eat.

Mrs. Staunton looked at the chops with dazed eyes.

"Those were for George," she exclaimed. "What a shame to bring them up before he has come into the house! They'll be cold and sodden, and he hates his food sodden. You don't suppose I'm going to touch my boy's dinner? No, not I! Put the chops down in the fender, Aggie. When George comes in, I always ring the bell twice. How careless of Mrs. Robinson! Effie, my dear, I don't think we can stop with her if she treats us in this fashion. It's perfectly disgraceful to cook George's food before he is ready for it."

Agnes began to explain that George was not coming home, but Effie silenced her with a look. She saw, to her horror, that her mother's mind was beginning to wander. She was really expecting George—who had not the faintest idea of coming back. Poor Effie saw there was nothing for it but to humor her mother. She put the food inside the fender, and then, going to a davenport in a corner of the room, wrote a hasty letter to Dorothy Fraser.

"We're in great trouble," she wrote. "I know you can't come. I know it is absolutely impossible for you to come, but neither can I go back to St. Joseph's this evening. Please tell Sister Kate, make any excuse for me you like—say anything that comes into your head. My career as a nurse is ended."

A big tear dropped from Effie's eyes as she wrote these last words. She folded up the letter and gave it to Agnes.

"Agnes," she said, "you must take this at once to St. Joseph's Hospital."

"Oh, I don't know how to get there," said Agnes, "and I was never out so late before in the evening."

"I am sorry to have to send you—stay, you had better take Kate with you. It would be better for the two of you to be together. Put on your hats and your warm jackets; don't be longer away than you can help—you have just to give this note to the hall porter and come straight back. You must take the red omnibus that goes along Oxford Street, and——"

Effie added a few more practical directions. Agnes' eyes sparkled at the thought of a little variety in her dull life. Katie ran willingly into her room to fetch her own and her sister's hats and jacket's. They were dressed in a very short time. Effie heard them running downstairs, and listened to the slam of the hall door. She had now set the irrevocable seal to her own act. She had deliberately turned her back on the life that she loved. She stood for a moment with a dizzy feeling in her head; then, with a little prayer which she sadly needed, to help her, she put aside all regret, and turned with a brave heart to face the dark present and the gloomy future.

Mrs. Staunton stood near the window, with her back to her daughter. Effie listened with a sick heart to her mutterings. She knew that her mother could not possibly get better if she refused to eat.

She was wondering what to do, and how she could dare to leave her, when a quick step was heard running up the stairs, and the next moment Fred Lawson came in.

Effie never to her dying day forgot the feeling of relief, of almost joy, which ran through her heart when she saw his clever, resolute face. He came in, in his usual quick, brisk, determined way—stopped short a little when he saw her, and then glanced significantly at her mother.

Mrs. Staunton had turned as eagerly as Effie when she heard the quick footsteps. Now her face was an absolute blank—she had come a step forward,—her hands suddenly fell to her sides.

"My mother is not well," said Effie. "She's upset."

"No, I'm not upset; you're greatly mistaken," said Mrs. Staunton. "Why should I be upset? There's not a happier woman in Christendom than I am. It's true my beloved husband has left me, but then I have got my boy—there never was a braver boy. How do you do, Mr. Lawson? Pray forgive me for not shaking hands with you when you came into the room—the fact is, I have been expecting George. His dinner is in the fender. The landlady did very wrong indeed to send it up before I rang for it. I always ring twice for George's dinner, don't you understand? It is a good plan. George likes his meals hot and tasty. No wonder—he earns them; he is a dear, good, clever fellow—he is getting a fine salary. Did you happen to meet him on the stairs? Perhaps you passed him—he is a little late, just a little late. Effie, can you tell me if Mr. Lawson has good sight? If he has, perhaps he'll come and watch by the window. I'm watching, but my eyes are a little weak at times. I might not see George when he is really there. Will you come and see, Mr. Lawson? He ought to be coming now, my dear boy,—my dearest,—my boy!"

Lawson gave Effie a glance. In a moment he read the true position. The poor weak brain had suddenly given way. He went up gently to Mrs. Staunton, and took one of her hot hands in his.

"When George comes in," he said, "I'll be here, and I'll tell him about his dinner. I know he'll be late to-night, and you mustn't wait up for him any longer. Come, Miss Effie will put you into bed. When you are in bed I'll give you something to make you sleep. Come now, don't delay; you're quite worn out. If you don't go to bed you'll be ill, and then you'll be of no use to your son."

"Do you really think so?" said Mrs. Staunton. "Yes, I mustn't be ill; George doesn't like it—it quite frets him. He is not like his dear father. He wants a cheerful home—no wonder, he is young, dear lad, he is young. Yes, I'll go to bed, and then I'll be all right in the morning. Come, Effie, help your mother to bed."

Effie took the poor woman out of the room. They went into the little bedroom. She helped her mother to undress. When she saw her lay her head on the pillow, she went back to the sitting room, where Lawson was quietly standing.

"I happened most fortunately," he said, the moment he saw her, "to have some packets of bromide in my pocket. There is sal-volatile in the room. I have made up a rather strong composing-draught for your mother. If she takes it, she will sleep peacefully and will not be likely to wake until the morning. Give it to her at once, and then come back to me—I have something to tell you."

Effie's trembling knees could scarcely support her as she went back to the next room.

"Has George come yet?" asked the mother.

"Not yet, mother; won't you take this medicine, please?"

"Yes, my love, yes. Effie, you are a very good girl—a great comfort to me, my darling. I'm glad you never went to the hospital; it was a mad, foolish scheme, and George never liked it. You are a great comfort to me, and a great comfort to your dear brother. You'll be sure to give him his dinner comfortably when he comes back, Effie?"

"Yes, mother, yes. Now do go to sleep, dear mother."

Mrs. Staunton drank off the medicine, laid her head on her pillow, and closed her dim, dark eyes. Effie watched by her until she thought she was dropping asleep. Pretty little Marjory was lying sound asleep in the same bed. Phil opened his big eyes as his sister passed.

"Is anything the matter?" he whispered. "Is anything wrong with George?"

"Pray for him, Phil," said Effie, tears suddenly filling her eves.

"Yes, yes," said the little fellow. "I always do."

Effie went into the next room.

"You have plenty of pluck, haven't you?" said Lawson, when he saw her.

"I hope so—I had need to have."

"Yes, I know that. Well, that unfortunate boy has put his foot in it at last,—he is in trouble,—detectives are after him."

"Detectives after George!" exclaimed Effie. "What can you possibly mean? Oh, do tell me at once—don't leave me in suspense."

"Sit down and I will tell you. Try not to agitate yourself, try to listen to me quietly. Remember that a brave woman can always control her nerves."

Effie sat down when Lawson bade her. Something in his quiet but resolute voice soothed her impatience; she looked up at him as he stood by the mantelpiece, resting one arm on it.

"The facts are these," he began at once; "Staunton has been going wrong for a long time——"

"I know it—I know it well," interrupted Effie.

"Yes, I feared that you knew it. Poor fellow, soon after his arrival in London he got with bad companions. He has naturally extravagant tastes—they introduced him to some of those gambling saloons. Given a weak nature, the love of money for the pleasure it can give, a will weakened with self-indulgence, and the result is easy to forecast. George has been going from bad to worse for months past. He has sometimes won considerable sums of money, and these successes have excited him to try again—with this devil's luck, as the saying is. Of late, however, that luck has turned against him, and the events which took place to-day are only the natural consequences."

Effie rose slowly from her seat.

"Go on," she said, coming up to Lawson. "What took place to-day? Go on, please,—I am quiet,—I am prepared for anything."

Lawson gave her a look of admiration.

"You are a brave girl," he said briefly. "The world would be a better place if there were more like you in it. Well, what took place is this. Staunton won heavily at cards the night before last. Not content with his gains, however, he persevered until the luck turned against him. Before he left the gambling saloon he had lost all his gains, and was in debt fifty pounds. To meet that debt he drew your mother's money from the bank yesterday morning."

"I know," said Effie, with white lips—"mother told me. She sent Agnes to the bank to cash a small check. Agnes was told that George's account was overdrawn. Yes, I know that. Is there more behind? Surely that must be the worst."

"Alas! I wish it were. This morning the poor fellow, while engaged in his duties at Gering's office, met with the temptation for which he was so ripe. It was a horrible one. He knew that your mother had not a penny. His feeling for her I need not enter upon. He found himself in the room with an open till, and took fifty pounds out of it. Soon afterwards, he made an excuse to leave the office. He wandered about all day in an indescribable state of misery. At last he summoned courage to go to the bank and deposit forty-five of the fifty pounds. He then rushed home, and, packing his things, prepared to run away. He said he was certain to be taken if he stayed, and simply could not bring himself to face the risk. He went to Waterloo, and to his horror discovered that he was watched. A man, undoubtedly a detective in plain clothes, was following him from place to place. The man watched him take his ticket for Southampton, and noticed the corner in which he deposited his bag in a third-class carriage. George seemed to lose his head at this crisis. He managed to elude the detective, slipped out of the station, took a hansom and drove straight to my rooms. Luckily I was at home. He made a clean breast of everything to me. He is in my rooms now, and safe for the time being, for no one will think of looking for him there. I want you to come with me at once to see him, for there is not a moment to be lost in deciding what is best to be done."

"Yes," said Effie, "I will come."

She felt stunned—her keenest feelings of anguish were lulled into momentary quiet by the greatness of this blow.

"I will write a note to Agnes," she said; "she is out—I had to send her to the hospital to say that I could not return there to-night." Then she added, her face turning whiter than ever, "If my mother knows of this, it will kill her."

"Your mother is the person to be considered, of course," said Lawson. "But for her, I should say that the best thing possible for George would be to undergo the punishment which he merits. As it is, however, matters are different. Well, write your note, and let us be quick. That strong opiate will keep your mother sleeping quietly until the morning. All your sister has to do is to watch her."

Effie drew a sheet of paper toward her, scribbled a few hasty lines on it, folded it up, and left it where Agnes could see it the moment she returned; then she followed Lawson into the street.

He hailed a passing hansom, and they drove straight to his rooms on the Embankment.

The feeling of a dream remained with Effie all during that drive; she kept rubbing her eyes and saying to herself, "It's only a dream—I shall awaken presently and find myself back at St. Joseph's."

The hansom drew up at the lodgings, and Lawson preceded Effie upstairs. He threw open the door of his little sitting room.

"Come in," he said. "Here is your sister, Staunton," he sang out.

Effie entered. She found herself in a small bright room. The gas was turned full on; one of the windows was open—a fresh breeze from the river came in. George was seated on a horse-hair sofa at the farthest end of the room. He held a small walking-stick in his hand, and was making imaginary patterns with it on the carpet. His shoulders were hitched up to his ears, his eyes were fixed on the ground. Effie looked at him. She said:

"George, I am here—I have come."

He did not make any response. She gave a little cry when he took no notice of her, and sank down helplessly on the nearest chair.

Lawson strode across the room and grasped George's shoulder.

"Look here, Staunton," he said; "you have got to pull yourself together. I have brought your sister here to consult what is best to be done. Look up, old chap! Take courage—all isn't lost yet. Now try and tell your sister everything."

"I have nothing to tell her," said George—he raised two lackluster eyes and fixed them with a sort of dull stare on Lawson's face.

"Don't talk folly—you have to tell her what you told me. You know the position you are in—you may be arrested at any moment. No one can help you but your sister; don't turn away from her."

"Oh, I understand all that," said George, shrugging his shoulder out of Lawson's grip. "I know well enough what has happened—I have gone under. I'm only one more. I—I can't help it—I have nothing to say."

Lawson looked at the big fellow almost in despair. He was really puzzled what to do. This was the moment, however, for Effie to take the initiative. She sprang suddenly to her feet, dashed the tears from her eyes, and went up to her brother. She fell on her knees by his side, and put her soft arms round his neck.

"Think of the old days, Geordie," she said, "when we were both little children. Think of mother and father, and the little old house, and the apple tree in the garden. Don't you remember the day when that ripe red apple fell, and we ate it bite about?"

When Effie began to speak, George trembled. He avoided her eyes for a moment longer, then he gave her a quick, furtive glance.

changed voice. "Before God, I couldn't help it."
a changed voice. "Before God, I couldn't help it."
[Transcriber's note: These two fragmented lines appear, as shown, at this point in the original text.]

Lawson stepped softly out of the room.

The moment he had done so, George said eagerly:

"He has told you, hasn't he?"

Effie nodded.

"Then I needn't go over it. Let's talk of something else. How is mother?"

"She is very ill indeed—she watched for you all the evening."

"Watched for me? But I told her I shouldn't be back to-night."

"Yes; but she didn't believe you, or she forgot it—anyhow, she watched for you, and when you didn't come, her mind began suddenly to wander; she is in bed now—she is very, very ill."

"Go on," said George; "hammer it in hard—I deserve it all."

"Oh, George, why will you talk like that? Don't you believe in my love for you?"

"I believe in mother's love. It's the only thing I have left to cling to. I believe she'd go on loving me even after this—I do truly."

"Of course she would—nothing could turn her love from you. Now, won't you let us consult together when Mr. Lawson comes into the room?"

"There's nothing to be done—nothing; I'm perfectly safe to be committed for trial, and then I shall get at least two years. Mother will die. And I shall have gone under forever."

"Nonsense! I have a thought in my head."

"You?" George spoke with almost contempt. "You always thought a great deal of yourself, Effie, but even you can't pull the ropes on the present occasion. I'm a thief, and I must suffer the penalty. That's the long and short of it."

Effie rose suddenly and walked to the door. She called Lawson—he came in at once.

"I think George will talk over matters now," she said. "But before we begin any discussion, I wish to say what I have made up my mind to do. I don't know Mr. Gering, but that does not matter. I mean to go to see him the first thing to-morrow morning, and beg of him not to prosecute George. That is the only chance for mother's life, and I mean to try it."