s different."

"But she knows I'm coming--" Billy showed signs of feeling aggrieved.

"Oh, she'll probably go all right. Why fuss until we find out? But I
don't think she's as crazy about you as you are about her."

"Girls always conceal their real feelings," Billy explained sagely.

"Perhaps," Philip conceded very little; "but Merry isn't like most
girls. Sometimes she seems about my own age and sometimes old enough to
be my mother. But have it your own way; I should worry."

The welcome was hearty enough to satisfy even Billy, so the pessimism of
his friend was at once forgotten. Mrs. Thatcher opened her arms wide to
both boys, while Merry, though less demonstrative, was equally cordial
in her reception.

"I'm awfully glad to see you," Billy said with a sincerity which could
not be doubted, and grinning all over. "It seems ages since Mr. Cosden
and Uncle Monty pushed me off the pier down at Bermuda."

Merry laughed. "That was a splendid idea of yours, Billy, to miss the
steamer, but I was afraid you couldn't work it."

"S-ssh," Billy placed a finger on his lips. "Don't ever breathe that
where Uncle Monty could hear you! I've made him believe it was a real
accident."

"We're dining at seven, boys," Mrs. Thatcher interrupted; "that will
give us comfortable time to reach the theater."

"Are we all going?" Phil asked.

"All but your father; he's feeling too tired to-night."

"Dad's well, isn't he?" Philip demanded quickly.

"Yes,--but tired," his mother answered. "He's all right. Now run along
and dress or you'll be late for dinner."

On his way up-stairs Philip stopped in his father's room. "Hello, Dad!"
he cried, pushing the door open unceremoniously. "Why, Dad,--you're not
well! Mother said you were only tired."

Thatcher was sitting in front of the great, old-fashioned desk which
Philip had associated with business and mystery since his childhood
days, and when the door was unexpectedly thrown open it disclosed him
resting his head upon his hands. The papers which Philip usually saw
spread out on the desk were lacking, so the position his father had
taken was the result of habit rather than present necessity. It was the
expression on the elder man's face which forced the exclamation.

Thatcher rose quickly and stepped forward to greet his son. "Nonsense,
boy! I'm all right," he exclaimed with an effort to speak lightly which
did not escape Philip; "I'm just tired, as your mother said.--I didn't
hear