Mr. Wilkins made no reply, but lifting his arm, drew the golden head upon his bosom, and held it there, stroking back with listless fingers the soft bright curls.
"Has anything unpleasant happened since I went out, Wilkins?"
"No, Guly; nothing has happened. I was alone here—the fire was bright, the arm-chair empty, so I sat down, and fell to thinking, that's all. Have you been to see Blanche?"
"Blanche! I don't suppose I could have found her, had I thought of trying."
"True enough. We are going there together. What of your brother, Guly?"
Guly told him of his ineffectual search; the fact of his not having seen him in any of the saloons, and the hope he entertained of seeing him walk in, by and by, feeling happier for his walk, and seating himself there by the fire.
Wilkins shook his head, doubtingly.
"Your brother's spirit is one which needs to be peculiarly dealt with, until he grows a little older, and less impetuous. I'm sorry to say it, but he has more pride than principle just at this age; and he ought to have the blessing of a home and a mother's love, till the principle could be made to predominate. Get a chair, Guly, and sit close by me, here."
Guly brought the chair, and placed it close to his companion, and seated himself. Wilkins drew his head again upon his bosom.