For a long time Mr. Howland moved about the room, while his wife continued to sit, listening, at the window.

“Come, Esther,” said the former, at length, in a voice greatly changed from its tone when he last spoke.  “You had better retire.  It is useless to remain there.  Besides, you are in danger of taking cold.  The air is damp and chilly.”

“You can retire—­I shall sleep none, to-night,” was answered to this.  And then Mrs. Howland looked again from the window.  “Where—­where can he have gone?” she said aloud, though speaking to herself.  “My poor, unhappy boy!”

Mr. Howland made no answer to this.  He had no satisfying intelligence to offer, nor any words of comfort that it would be of avail to speak.

Thus the greater portion of that long remembered night was passed—­Mrs. Howland sitting at the window, vainly waiting and watching for her son, and Mr. Howland walking the floor of the room, his mind given up to troubled and rebuking thoughts.  In his hardness and self-will he had justified himself up to this in his course of conduct pursued toward his children; but he was in doubt now.  A question as to whether he had been right or not had come into his mind, and disturbed him to the very centre.

CHAPTER VIII.

When Mr. Howland threatened his son with exclusion from the house, if he were away at ten o’clock, Andrew’s feelings were in a state of reaction against his father, and he said to himself, in a rebellious spirit—­

“We’ll see if you will.”

But after growing cooler, he came into a better state of mind; and, in view of consequences such as he knew would be visited on him, decided not to come in contact with his father in this particular—­at least not for the present.  If turned from his own door at midnight, where was he to find shelter?  This question he could not answer to his own satisfaction.

After supper, on the evening succeeding that in which he had visited the theatre, Andrew left home and went to an engine-house. in the neighborhood, where he joined about a dozen lads and young men as idle and aimless as himself.  With these he spent an hour or two, entering into their vicious and debasing conversation, when a person with whom he had gone to see the play on the previous evening, proposed to him to go around to the theatre again.  Andrew objected that he had no money, but the other said that he could easily procure checks, and volunteered to ask for them.  Still Andrew, whose thoughts were on the passing time, refused to go.  He meant to be home before the clock struck ten.

“Come round with me, then,” urged the lad.

“What time is it?” asked Andrew.

“Only a little after nine o’clock,” was replied.

“Are you certain?”

“Oh, yes.  I heard the clock strike a short time ago.  It isn’t more than a quarter past nine.”

“I thought it was later than that.”