ired and loved Phil out of bounds for this little bit
of natural honesty and justice. He thought there had never been a finer
fellow in the world, and his heart warmed to him as if he had been a son
of his own. As for that rascal of a father--and when he got so far in
his thoughts he fumed so with wrath that he dared go no farther, and was
compelled, for the sake of his own peace, to banish the friend of his
schooldays from his mind a thousand times a week.

It was about a year later than the disgrace of the house of Bommaney
that old Brown, to his daughter's perplexity and grief, began to show
signs of trouble almost as marked as those he had displayed after his
old friend's defection. The old boy's newspaper no longer interested him
of a morning. He began to be lax about that morning ride which he had
once regarded as being absolutely necessary to the preservation of
health in London. He had been impassioned with the theatre, and had
become a diligent attendant at first-night performances. Even these
ceased to have any joy for him, and he neglected, in fine, all his old
sources of amusement He went about sorrowful and grumpy, expressing the
dolefullest opinions about everything. There was going to be war, stocks
were going down, trade was crumbling, there was no virtue in man.

Patty tried her best to coax him from these pessimistic moods, but
the old boy was not to be persuaded. On fine evenings, when there was
nothing better to be done, he had loved greatly, between the quiet
old-fashioned tea and the quiet old-fashioned supper, to dress for out
of doors, and with Patty on his arm to wander into Regent's Park, and
there inhale the best imitation of country atmosphere that London could
afford. He dropped this amiable and affectionate habit, and took to
rambling out alone, coming home late, and haggard, and not infrequently,
at such times, staring at his daughter with an aspect so sorrowing and
wretched that she knew not what to make of him.

The girl, watching him with a constantly increasing solicitude, could at
last endure this condition of affairs no longer. He came home one night,
leaving neither his stick nor hat in the outer hall, and sat down in the
dining-room, muffled and great-coated, the picture of dejection. Patty,
kneeling before him, removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and began to
unbutton his overcoat.

'Papa!' she cried suddenly, 'what _is_ the matter with you? Why are you
so changed?'

He breat