The notes fell over the banisters into the hall below.

Carroll watched them touch the floor as he answered, “My dear sister, I don’t know, but boys have played truant before, and survived it; and I have strong hopes of our dear boy.”  Carroll’s voice, though droll, was exceedingly soft and soothing.  He put an arm again around his wife, drew her close to him, and pressed her head against his shoulder.  “Dear, you will be ill,” he said.  “The boy is all right.”

“I am sure this time he is shot,” moaned Mrs. Carroll.

“My dear Amy!”

“Now, Arthur, you can laugh,” said his sister, coming down the stairs, the embroidered ruffles of her white cambric skirt fluttering around her slender ankles in pink silk stockings, and her little feet thrust into French-heeled slippers, one of which had an enormous bow and buckle, the other nothing at all.  “You may laugh,” said Anna Carroll, in a sweet, challenging voice, “but why is it so unlikely?  Eddy Carroll has had everything but shooting happen to him.”

“Yes, he has been everything except shot,” moaned Mrs. Carroll.

“My dearest dear, don’t worry over such a thing as that!”

“But, Arthur,” pleaded Mrs. Carroll, “what else is there left for us to worry about?”

Carroll’s mouth twitched a little, but he looked and spoke quite gravely.  “Well,” he said, “I am going now, and I shall find the boy and bring him home safe and sound, and—­ Amy, darling, have you eaten anything?”

“Oh, Arthur,” cried his wife, reproachfully, “do you think I could eat when Eddy did not come home to dinner, and always something dreadful has happened other times when he has not come?  Eddy has never stayed away just for mischief, and then come home as good as ever.  Something has always happened which has been the reason.”

“Well, perhaps he has stayed away for mischief alone, and that is what has happened now instead of the shooting,” said Carroll.

“Arthur, if—­if he has, you surely will not—­”

“Arthur, you will not punish that boy if he does come home again safe and sound?” cried his sister.

Carroll laughed.  “Have either of you eaten anything?” he asked.

“Of course not,” replied his sister, indignantly.

“How could we, dear?” said his wife.  “I had thought I was quite hungry, and when the butcher sent the roast, after all—­”

“Perhaps I had better wait and not pay him until he does not send anything,” murmured Anna Carroll, as if to herself.  “And when the roast did come, I was glad, but, after all, I could not touch it.”

“Well, you must both eat to-night to make up for it,” said Carroll.

“I had thought you would as soon have it cold for dinner to-night,” said Mrs. Carroll, in her soft, complaining voice.  “We would not have planned it for our noon lunch, but we were afraid to ask the butcher for chops, too, and as long as there were no eggs for breakfast, we felt the need of something substantial; but, of course, when that darling boy did not come, and we had reason to think he was shot, we could not—­” Mrs. Carroll leaned weepingly against her husband, but he put her from him gently.