ng me about his brother in Canada. That's the sort
of thing I should like if it could be arranged. It will be beastly
leaving home again. I never knew it was such a thundering nice place
until I left this time. But it is my only chance; I should never do any
good in the City. You will let me go, won't you, Phil?"

"Yes, Barney," said Philippa sadly. "It is the hardest thing you could
ask me, but if it is for your good I must not think of myself. You
shall go, dear, as soon as an opening is found; and we will give you as
complete an outfit as can be bought, but after that we can do no more.
You will have to stand by yourself and fight your own battles. There
will be no home open if you run away from your work, and no stupid old
sister to spoil you and give you a fresh start."

The smile with which Barney regarded her was at once charming and
pathetic--so full of warm-hearted affection, so radiantly complacent and
assured.

"Canada is not far off; it would be as good as being in England, for it
is under the old flag, and the people are so jolly loyal and brave. I
could come back every two or three years, and when I get a home of my
own you will have to come out and visit me. Don't you worry, old girl;
I'll get on like a house on fire, and I promise you to keep out of
mischief. There will be no chance of getting into it, for one thing,
away out in the wilds."

"Oh Barney, Barney, don't be so sure! There will be difficulties and
temptations wherever you go, and you must be prepared to meet them.
Don't be content to promise _me_, dear. Promise yourself--the strong,
good man you were meant to be. Promise God, Barney, and ask Him to help
you to stand fast."

It was not Philippa's habit to preach, and the fact gave additional
weight to her solemn words. Barney looked awed and impressed, and
thoroughly uncomfortable into the bargain. "All right, Phil, I'll
remember," he said softly; but the next moment he discovered that she
looked tired, and hurried away. Philippa heard him go into his own
room, and presently the sound of his voice reached her ears, raised in
happy strains:

"Jack's the boy, when girls are sad,
To kiss their tears away."

He had been serious for five minutes on end, and the strain was
evidently too much for his constitution; but Philippa lay awake far into
the night, talking to God about her boy, asking His help where she had
failed. It was the truest of all comforts to feel that