Yes, yes! Just the thing! Bring the sketch to show me, and we can
consult about it together, for I really can't manage these stairs again.
I'm so pleased it's all settled?"

She rose as she spoke, and prepared to take her leave, but as she did so
her eye fell on the row of photographs on the chimneypiece, and she
walked forward to examine them in her usual free-and-easy fashion.

"Family pictures! There is Hope--not half pretty enough, though. That
was your father, I suppose. So clever, wasn't he! By the way, how is
that young brother of yours getting on?"

If a thunderbolt had fallen through the roof, the occupants of the room
could hardly have been more startled than by this simple question. This
was Miss Caldecott's first visit to the flat; Barney's name had never
been mentioned in her presence; how, then, did she come to know of his
existence? The shadow which had been pushed aside for a few minutes now
returned more heavily than ever, and the pale, tense faces of the four
girls startled the innocent questioner.

"What is the matter? What have I said? Nothing to worry you, have I?"

"We are in trouble about our brother, Miss Caldecott. He has--
disappeared," said Philippa, resting both hands on the back of a chair
to hide their trembling. "Do you mind telling us how you came to know
him?"

"But I don't know him; only heard his name casually from a friend.
Handsome boy, isn't he?--musical--sings comic songs and dances
break-downs--up to all sorts of fun?"

"Yes, yes!" cried the sisters in concert, and the Hermit drew near,
forgetting his embarrassment in his anxiety to hear what might be told.
The five pairs of eyes were fixed hungrily on the silly, pretty face,
and even as they looked they saw it change, soften into sympathy, and
grow sweet and earnest and womanly.

"And he has run away, has he? And you are sitting at home waiting for
him, and breaking your hearts. Poor little girls! Wouldn't it be
lovely if I helped you to find him, after all? Now, I'll tell you all I
know. I had some friends in the other night, and one of the men was
turning over my songs and found `The Song of Sleep.' We laughed about
it a good deal, for I told him it was half my own composition. He
noticed the name--Hope Charrington--and said he knew a young fellow of
that name; who was one of the most amusing boys he had ever met, and
could sing a rattling comic song. He is musical, this man I am speaking
of, and is