"Yes, yes," replied Mr. Kemble, yielding to irritation in his deep perplexity, "the more matter-of-fact we are the better we're off. I suppose the best thing to do is just to face what happens and try to be brave."
"Well, papa, what's happened to annoy you to-night? Is this sick man going to make you trouble?"
"Like enough. I hope not. At any rate, he has claims which I must meet."
"Don't you think you can meet them?" was her next anxious query, her mind reverting to some financial obligation.
"We'll see. You and mother'll have to help me out, I guess. I'll tell you both when we get home;" and his sigh was so deep as to be almost a groan.
"Papa," said Helen, earnestly pressing his arm, "don't worry. Mamma and I will stand by you; so will Hobart. He is the last one in the world to desert one in any kind of trouble."
"I know that, no one better; but I fear he'll be in deeper trouble than any of us. The exasperating thing is that there should be any trouble at all. If it had only happened before—well, well, I can't talk here in the street. As you say, you must stand by me, and I'll do the best I can by you and all concerned."
"Oh, papa, there was good cause for my foreboding."
"Well, yes, and no. I don't know. I'm at my wits' end. If you'll be brave and sensible, you can probably do more than any of us."
"Papa, papa, something IS the matter with Hobart," and she drew him hastily into the house, which they had now reached.