"Does it mean a prison for papa?" he asked, controlling his voice and manner to calmness, though his heart turned sick with fear. "You must tell me all, mother, now I have read this."
"Perhaps it does, Henry. Or else the selling up of our home. I scarcely know what myself, except that it means great distress and confusion."
He could hardly speak for consternation. But, if he understood the letter aright, a sum of ten pounds would for the present avert it. "It is not much," he said aloud to his mother.
"It is a great deal to us, Henry; more than we know where to find."
"Papa could borrow it from Mr. Arkell."
"I am sure he will not, let the consequences be what they may. I don't wonder. If you only knew, my dear, how much, how often, he has had to borrow from William Arkell—kind, generous William Arkell!—you could hardly wish him to."
"But what will be done?" he urged.
"I don't know. Unless things come to the crisis they have so long threatened. Child," she added, bursting into tears, "in spite of my firmly-seated trust, these petty anxieties are wearing me out. Every time a knock comes to the door, I shiver and tremble, lest it should be people come to ask for money which we cannot pay. Henry, you will be late."
"Plenty of time, mamma. I timed myself one day, and ran from this to the cloister entrance in two minutes and a half. Are you being pressed for much besides this?" he continued, touching the letter.
"Not very much for anything else," she replied. "That is the worst: if that were settled, I think we might manage to stave off the rest till brighter days come round. If we can but retain, our home!—several times it would have gone, but for Mr. Arkell. But I was wrong to speak of this to you," she sighed: "and I am wrong to give way, myself. It is not often that I do. God never sent a burden, but He sent strength to bear it: and we have always, hitherto, been wonderfully helped. Henry, you will surely be late."