THOROUGHLY worn out by all he had gone through, it was late next morning before Vivian awoke. As his eye fell on his empty bed he wondered drowsily what had happened, and why he had slept with Ronald, and why Ronald was up and about while he had not even been called.

Then, with a flash, his homecoming last night and his confession to his father came into his mind, and with it the thought of his little cousin’s illness, and all the sorrow and trouble and disgrace which he had brought not only on himself but on his friends.

He was wide awake now, and he turned over on his pillow with a groan, for he knew that in a short time he would have to meet his father once more, perhaps even go back to London with him, and the whole sad story would need to be told over again, and it would be much harder to tell it to-day than it had been last night, when he was excited and his feelings strung up by the thought of Isobel’s danger.

‘Isobel will probably be dead by now,’ he thought dully. ‘Well, she would never know how wicked and false her playfellow had been; but it would be all the harder to have to face Uncle Walter and Aunt Dora and tell the miserable truth to them in the midst of their terrible trouble.

Then he began to wonder what punishment he would get; perhaps he would be sent to some very strict school where only bad boys were sent—he had heard of such places—and perhaps little Dorothy, and even Ronald, would not be allowed to see him or to talk about the brother who had brought such disgrace on them all.

Bitter tears filled his eyes at the thought; and yet, mingling with the bitterness and deep sense of shame, there was a feeling of relief that now, at all events, the truth was known, and he need not go about with the awful fear of discovery hanging over him.

A footstep sounded on the stair. Was it his father? His face flushed at the thought of seeing him again. But no, it was too light a step for his, and it was Ronald who pushed the door open and looked cautiously into the room.

His face brightened when he saw that his brother was awake. ‘Look here, old fellow,’ he said, crossing over to where Vivian lay, and shaking a yellow envelope in his face, ‘this came in half-an-hour ago, and father said I might bring it up to you when you were awake. It’s good news this time,’ and his voice shook a little. ‘It’s to say that Isobel is better, so you see God has answered our prayers after all.’

With trembling hands Vivian took the piece of flimsy paper, and read the words which it contained: ‘Isobel distinctly better. Doctors hopeful.’ Then he lay back on his pillow and gazed out of the window without speaking, but with such a curious gladness on his face that Ronald, standing by, dared not break the silence.

To Vivian that message of good news seemed a sign and seal of forgiveness. After all, God had not forsaken him in spite of his sin. ‘And when he was yet a long way off, his father saw him, and had compassion on him.’ The old story seemed very real to the little boy then. It had been told by holy lips, many hundreds of years ago, to a crowd of eager listeners in Galilee; but with a great rush of gladness he felt that it was as true to-day as it was then. He was the prodigal son. He had wandered into a far country—a country of sin and shame and falsehood—and yet, the moment he had turned his face in the direction of the Father’s home, the moment he had shown his repentance by his confession, the Father had heard him, and had had compassion on him, and had answered the unspoken prayer which he had not even dared to offer. And if God had been so ready to help him in his sore need and anxiety, would He not also help him in the ordeal which lay before him, when every one who up till now had loved him and thought much of him would learn what manner of boy he really was.

‘They were your prayers, Ronnie,’ he said at last; ‘but perhaps God saw that I was really sorry, and perhaps that did as well.’

‘Yes, and saw that you had made up your mind to own up,’ said Ronald; ‘and you know that mother always says that the real test of being sorry is the owning up and the trying to put things right as far as we can.’

‘There will be an awful lot to put right,’ said Vivian sadly, a sudden fit of depression coming over him. ‘Even if Isobel gets well, there is all Aunt Dora’s silver gone, and Joe Flinders put in prison.’

‘But Joe Flinders needn’t stay in prison when they know that it wasn’t he who took the pistol,’ said Ronald; and then he wished he had not spoken when he noticed the distressed look that came to his brother’s face at the mention of the pistol, and remembered all that must happen before Joe could be set at liberty.

‘Never mind, old chap,’ he said tenderly, putting his arm round Vivian’s shoulder; ‘just set your teeth, and go through with it. Father will help you, and I will stand by you for all that I am worth.’

The conversation was interrupted by Lucy’s entrance with a breakfast-tray.

‘There’s good news this morning, isn’t there, Master Vivian?’ she said cheerfully, noticing the little boy’s pale cheeks and heavy eyes, which she set down to the excitement of yesterday and the anxiety about his cousin. ‘You must try to eat a good breakfast, for it seems that you have to go back to London with the master.’

Vivian started at the words, and turned his face away from the kindly girl who was arranging his pillows comfortably behind him, and fussing over him as though he were ill.

So there was to be no pause, no respite. He was to go up to London this very day, and even before he had set out the ordeal had begun, for he saw from Lucy’s wondering tone that every one would at once begin to ask the reason for this sudden return to town, and the truth was bound to come out. To have Lucy, and cook, and old Black (who had known him ever since he was a baby) all know him now as a thief and a liar would be intolerable.

But Ronald, true to his promise of a minute before of ‘standing by him for all he was worth,’ answered for him.

‘Yes, Vivian has to go back with father because he was not at church on Sunday, and he saw a man in the garden who may have been one of the thieves. And the police want to hear more about him.’

The words were strictly true, and yet they explained everything so naturally that Vivian wondered how he had ever thought Ronald stupid.

‘Dear, dear,’ said Lucy, looking admiringly at Vivian, ‘so you really saw him, Master Vivian! No wonder you look white and shaken. He might have murdered you, he might, when there was no one about. London must be a dreadful place. I am glad I don’t live there. Have another cup of tea? No? Even if I put two lumps of sugar in it? Well, to be sure, it has taken away your appetite, and little wonder. And you must be ready for the twelve o’clock train too! It is almost time that you were getting up. See, here comes little Miss Dorothy. She shall sit on your bed till I take down the tray and get you some hot water, and then she must come into the nursery while you dress.’

Vivian was not destined, however, to meet his father before he started, or to go to London with the twelve o’clock train. If he had done so things might have fallen out very differently from what they did.

Many a time in the dreary days that followed did Dr Armitage wish with a groan that the miller’s pony had not taken it into its head to run away just on that particular morning. As it was, the pony took fright at an innocent old woman who was walking down the road with a bundle of sticks on her back, and it threw its rider, the miller’s only son, who had his leg broken and his head cut, besides being bruised all over, so that the doctor, who was sent for in hot haste by the boy’s frantic parents, found it absolutely impossible to go to London by the train he had intended travelling by. Indeed, he did not even go home to lunch, but had some bread and cheese in the miller’s kitchen; and then, having set the boy’s leg, and seen him come back to consciousness, he sent a message home by a passing labourer to bid Vivian meet him at the station at three o’clock, and went on to make one or two important visits which needed to be made.

Indeed, in the end, he nearly missed the train, for it had come into the station before he appeared; and Ronald, who had driven down with Vivian to keep up his courage and give him a cheery set-off, was at his wits’ end whether to take his brother’s ticket or not.

‘All right; jump in, Vivi,’ said his father, as he took his handbag from his eldest son.—‘You were a thoughtful boy, Ronald, to bring me this. I forgot all about sleeping things when I sent the message, and we won’t get back to-night now.—Tickets? Oh, I will pay at the other end.—Good-bye, Ronald, you will have a dull evening, I am afraid, my boy.—All right, Timms.’ And then the train moved out of the station, and Ronald made his way slowly back to the carriage, feeling very sorry for his little white-faced brother, and wishing that he could have gone along with him.

Poor Vivian wished the same wish a great many times as the express flew quickly along towards London. He had dreaded being alone with his father, and yet to have been alone with him now would have been a relief, for there were two other gentlemen in the carriage, both of whom knew Dr Armitage, and were eager for any fresh news he could give them respecting the robbery.

So the little boy had to sit in silent misery and hear every detail of the robbery, of which the newspapers were full, talked over from every point of view. His father tried to spare him, and to direct the conversation to other topics; but it was not easily done, for both the gentlemen were old and fussy, and they had to argue over every point, and discuss every mysterious circumstance until Dr Armitage was at his wits’ end how to answer their questions and yet hide from them how much he knew, and poor Vivian was in such a state of nervousness that he could have screamed aloud.

The journey came to an end at last, however, as all things do, whether they be pleasant or unpleasant, and the train steamed into Victoria Station, where the electric lamps were already blazing.

‘Now for a cab, my boy!’ said Dr Armitage, turning and laying his hand on Vivian’s shoulder kindly, after he had helped the two garrulous old gentlemen to get all their belongings out of the carriage, and had shaken hands with them, and said good-bye. ‘All those questions were rather hard on you, weren’t they? It is what you must expect, I fear, for a time. But never mind, you have fought the first bit of your fight, and you must just make up your mind to be brave and to go through with it.’

The kind words brought the tears to Vivian’s eyes. ‘It is mother,’ he said huskily. ‘I don’t feel as if I could meet her.’

‘Nonsense,’ said his father cheerily, for he saw that the little fellow had had enough to bear, and needed some encouragement if he were not to break down altogether, ‘mother is never hard on any one who has owned up and said that they are sorry; and I am sure that Aunt Dora and Uncle Walter will not be too hard on you either, although, of course, you must expect to find them both angry and disappointed with you at first. But we mustn’t stand talking here.—Hi, cabman!’

The cabman noticed the doctor’s signal, and turned his horse’s head; but just at that moment there was a cry, and a rush of people to another part of the station.

A man had slipped while coupling a moving engine to a train, and the two first carriages had gone over his legs. Some one came running along calling for a doctor, and Dr Armitage immediately offered his services.

‘Wait here till I come, my boy,’ he said. ‘See, the man will let you get into his cab, and will wait for me at the end of the station.—I may be some time, cabby,’ he added, looking up at the red-faced man on the box. ‘If the poor fellow is badly hurt I may have some bandaging to do before they can remove him to the hospital; but I’ll be back again as quickly as I can.’

‘All right, sir,’ said the man, touching his hat. ‘I will wait for you under the great clock yonder.’

The doctor hurried away without wasting more time. As he expected, the accident was a serious one. The poor man’s legs were both badly crushed, and it was some time before he could check the hÆmorrhage sufficiently to make it safe for him to be removed to the hospital. When at last the sufferer had been made as comfortable as possible, and the doctor had helped to place him in a station ambulance, and had seen it start swiftly for its destination, he hurried back to find his cab.

There it was, waiting, as its driver had promised, just opposite the great clock, the man apparently half-asleep on the box.

The doctor glanced up at the clock as he passed it.

‘Sorry to keep you, cabby; but I couldn’t help it,’ he said pleasantly to the man, who must have been sleeping with one eye open, for he straightened himself and gathered up the reins as soon as he saw his fare appear. ‘And we have a long drive before us too. We wish to go to Hampstead, to a house called “Eversley,” just on the Heath. I will direct you to it when we get there.’

The man touched his hat with a smile which somehow lit up the whole of his rough, weather-beaten face. ‘My horse will soon take you over the ground. She’s a rare good little beast, and knows how to go. I hope the young gentleman isn’t very cold. I thought once of saying to him that he should go to the waiting-room over there, and then I thought as ’ow you might be here at any minute.’

‘Oh, he’ll be all right,’ said the doctor, opening the door.—‘Are you asleep, old fellow?’ he asked briskly. ‘I have been as quick as I could; but it has taken me fully a quarter of an hour.’

There was no answer, and he sprang into the cab with an exclamation of alarm. Had Vivian really gone to sleep, or, worn out with the strain and excitement, had he suddenly been taken ill? Impatiently he groped all round in the darkness. There was the travelling-rug, and there was the hand-bag on the floor—he tripped over it, and for one horrible moment thought it was his son. Then he struck a match and looked round. The truth which had been dawning on him for the last few seconds, and which he had refused to believe, was now quite plain, quite certain. The cab was empty. Vivian had disappeared.