outside, the sky was clear. the stars were coming out. their light was pale by contrast to the street-lamps. a cool breeze fanned charles's hot face as he made his way with a step that was almost buoyant toward the common. some students on one of the walks were singing a college song he used to love in those gay days which now seemed so far away.

he was passing a little wine-room where he had been fond of going with certain friends, and almost by habit he paused and faced its lighted windows. then he was conscious again of that strange experience which had immediately followed the tragic revelation his brother had made to him. he had no desire to drink. he laughed as he turned and strode onward across the street to the common. was there really such a thing as a new birth in which, under stress of some rare spiritual experience, a man was completely changed? it might really be so, he told himself, for nothing like this had ever come to him before. he was happy. indeed, something like ecstasy had come upon him; it was in his very veins, hovering over him like indescribable light. he thought of william's dumb look of relief, and a joyous sob rose and hung in his throat. it was pain and yet it was not pain. how wonderfully beautiful the whole world seemed! there was really nothing out of order. till a few minutes ago all was meaningless chaos and tragic despair, and yet now—now—he could not put it into words. he thought of the action of the club which had turned him out, and smiled. why, the officials were merely puppets of convention, and he had been a naughty child. the police court! how funny the grave, fat judge looked as he delivered that fatherly lecture and imposed that fine! oh, it was all in life, and life was a mosaic of rare beauty!

when he reached beacon street a night policeman was on the corner. charles saluted him and gave him a cigar. "fine night, fine night!" he said.

"it is indeed," the man answered.

charles found the house dark, save for the gas which was turned low in the hall. he let himself in softly, and ascended the thickly carpeted stairs to his room. turning on the electric light, he looked about him. he must hurry.

"yes, i'll write a note and leave it here for william," he reflected. "it will help him explain to-morrow. he need only direct the examiner's attention to it, and they will understand, or think they understand."

he sat down at a little table, drew some paper toward him, and began to write.

my dear brother [ran the note],—when you get this i shall be gone. i need not explain. when the examiners get to the vaults they will see why i had to leave. i have been going from bad to worse, as every one knows. i have abused your confidence, love, and hospitality. you will never see me again. sixty thousand dollars is a large amount, i know, but on my honor i am not taking all of it with me. most of it is gone already. good-by.

c.

he put the note into an envelope, sealed it, and directed it to his brother. he had just done so when he heard a soft step on the stairs leading down from the servants' rooms above. there was a rap on the door. he opened it. it was michael.

"i thought i heard you come in," michael said, lamely. "i was about to go to bed, sir. but is there anything i can do for you to-night—a cup of something to drink—coffee or tea?"

"not to-night, mike," charles answered. "the truth is that i am off for springfield—on a little business of my own. i must get away at once. i may have to stay there a short while—several days, in fact, and i want to pack a few things. pull out my dress-suit case from the closet, will you, and dust it off. then put in half a dozen shirts and underwear."

"your evening suit, sir?"

"no, oh no, not that," charles smiled. "i'm not going into society on this trip. i'll get out what i need."

taking the articles from a drawer of the bureau, charles tossed them on the bed near the suitcase which the servant had brushed and opened. "put them in, please, mike. it will save time."

the suitcase was packed and locked. charles suddenly observed that mike was eying the addressed envelope curiously.

"oh, that note?" the young man said, averting his eyes oddly. "that is for my brother. will you hand it to him—not to-night, i mean—at the breakfast-table in the morning? don't fail, mike. it is rather important."

the servant took it up. he held it tentatively. he hesitated. "he does not know that you are going, sir?" he asked.

charles stared straight at the floor. "this will tell him all that he need know, mike."

putting the note into his pocket, michael stolidly faced his companion. "of course it does not concern me," he faltered, "but somehow you talk and act like—?" he went no further.

"oh, you are afraid i'm off on another spree, eh?" charles laughed. "but i'm not, mike. it is business, this time, and serious business at that."

the servant was not satisfied, as was evident from his unsettled glances here and there, now on the young man's face, again on the suitcase or the floor.

"you may have forgotten it, sir, but only the other day you spoke of wanting to go away for a long stay, and the little unpleasantness at your club and the police court—"

"i see, i see, you don't forget things. you put two and two together," charles interrupted. "what is that?"

it was a child's startled scream from mrs. browne's room, followed by the assuring tones of the mother.

"it is ruth," michael explained. "she screams out like that now and then when she is dreaming."

"i wish i could see the little thing," charles seemed to be speaking to himself now. "they are a beautiful pair—that mother and child. ah, and they have been sweet and good to me!"

"now, i am afraid, sir. indeed, i am," michael said, with feeling.

"afraid of what, mike?"

"i am afraid it is not springfield you are going to, sir."

"ah, you are suspicious!" charles said, in ill-assumed lightness.

"i haven't known you from boyhood up for nothing, sir," mike said, with emotion. "ever since your talk sunday i have been afraid you'd leave."

"well, then, what if i am going, mike? the world is big and full of opportunities, and i am tired of this—i really am."

"but why leave like this, sir?" mike demanded, gently. "surely you won't go without telling your folks of it and saying good-by! why, this note to your brother looks as if—as if—"

"well, i do want to slip away, mike, and i'm going like a thief in the night. you will understand to-morrow. everybody in boston will. as for that, mike, a drinking-man will do many things that he ought not to do, and—and i handle money at the bank. don't push me further now. let's drop it. i have to go, and that settles it."

michael failed to understand, for he was thinking of something else. "you will need the money i owe you, sir, and i've been trying to get it up. i see a chance now, sir. my sister out west feels that she owes at least half of that debt to you, and her husband has been doing well. she wrote me—"

"drop that, mike," charles cried. "i don't need that money. you shall never pay it—never. i've given that to your mother, do you understand, not to you, but to her?"

"it shall not be that way, sir," the other pleaded. "i will send it to you. but as for your doing anything wrong at the bank"—charles's statement was dawning on him slowly—"nobody on earth could make me think so."

"well, never mind about that, mike. the fact is that i must go—now and at once. let me out at the front door."

"do you want a cab, sir?"

"a cab?" charles smiled. "not to-night. in fact, i am going through the darkest streets i can get into. i know every alley in this old town. good-by, mike. deliver the note to my brother in the morning."