“I can’t understand why they should have left Planktown,” said Philip, appearing puzzled.

“Is the house occupied?”

“Yes.  I hear that a cousin of Mrs. Brent occupies it.  I shall call and inquire after her.”

“Very well, Philip.  Go when you please.  You may be sure of a welcome when you return.”

In Planktown, though his home relations latterly had not been pleasant, Philip had many friends, and when he appeared on the street, he met everywhere glances of friendly welcome.  One of the first to meet him was Tommy Kavanagh.

“Where did you come from, Phil?” he asked.

“I am glad enough to see you.  Where are you staying?”

“Nowhere, Tommy, at present.  If your mother can take me in, I will stay at your house.”

“Take you?  Yes, and will be glad enough to have you stay with us.  You know we live in a small house, but if you don’t mind——­”

“What do you take me for, Tommy?  Whatever is good enough for you and your mother will be good enough for me.”

“What are you doing, Phil?  You don’t look as if you had hard work making a living.”

“I am well fixed now, but I have had some anxious days.  But all’s well that ends well.  I am private secretary to a rich man, and live in a fine brown-stone house on Madison Avenue.”

“Good for you, Phil!  I knew you’d succeed.”

“Where is Mrs. Brent?  Has anything been heard from her?”

“I don’t think anybody in the village knows where she is—­that is, except her cousin, who lives in your old house.”

“What is his name?”

“Hugh Raynor.”

“What sort of a man is he?”

“The people in the village don’t like him.  He lives alone, and I hear that he cooks for himself.  He is not at all social, and no one feels very much acquainted with him.”

“I shall call upon him and inquire after Mrs. Brent.”

“Then, Phil, you had better go alone, for he doesn’t like callers, and he will be more ready to receive one than two.”

Philip enjoyed his visit, and was busied making calls on his old acquaintances.  He was much pleased with the cordiality with which he had been received.

It was not till the afternoon of the second day that he turned his steps toward the house which had been his home for so long a time.

We will precede him, and explain matters which made his visit very seasonable.

In the sitting-room sat Hugh Raynor, the present occupant of the house.  He was a small, dark-complexioned man, with a large Roman nose, and his face was at this moment expressive of discontent.  This seemed to be connected with a letter which he had just been reading.  Not to keep the reader in suspense, it was mailed at Chicago, and was written by Mrs. Brent.  We will quote a paragraph: