"You will be late, Henry."
Something in the tone of the voice struck on his ear, and he looked attentively at his mother. The signs of past emotion were not quite obliterated from her face.
"Mamma, you have been crying."
It was of no use to deny it; indeed the sudden accusation brought up fresh tears then. Painful matters had been kept as much as possible from Henry; but he could not avoid knowing of the general embarrassments: unavoidable, and, so to speak, honourable embarrassments.
"What is it now?" he urgently asked.
"Nothing new; only the old troubles over and over again. Of course, the longer they go on, the worse they get. Never mind, dear; you cannot mend matters, so there's no necessity for allowing them to trouble you. There is an invitation come for you from the Palmers'. I told Lucy to put the note on the mantel-piece."
He saw a letter lying there and opened it. His colour rose vividly as he read, and he turned to look at the direction. It was addressed "Mr. Peter Arkell;" but Henry had read it then.
"You see, they want you to spend Monday with them at Heath Hall, and as it will be the judges' holiday, you can get leave from college and do so."
"Mother," he interrupted—and every vestige of colour had forsaken his sensitive face—"what does this letter mean?"
Mrs. Arkell started up and clasped her hands. "Oh, Henry! what have you been reading? What has Lucy done? She has left out the wrong letter. That was not meant for you."