So we fell into line, the doctor and Aunt Elizabeth, my husband and I, on our way to take the cars for “The Happy Family,” when suddenly Tom clapped his hands to his pockets and announced that he had forgotten—­he must send a telegram.  Coming away in such a hurry, he must telegraph to the Works.  Tom is an incurable telegrapher (I have long cherished the conviction that he is the main support of the Western Union Telegraph Company), and we all followed him to the nearest office where he could get a wire.

Some one was before him at the window, a person holding a hesitant pencil above a yellow blank.  I believe I am not without self-possession myself, partly natural, and partly acquired by living so long with Tom; but it took all I ever had not to utter a womanish cry when the young man turned his face and I saw that it was Harry Goward.

The boy’s glance swept us all in.  When it reached Aunt Elizabeth and Dr. Denbigh he paled, whether with relief or regret I had my doubts at that moment, and I have them still.  An emotion of some species possessed him so that he could not for the moment speak.  Aunt Elizabeth was the first to recover herself.

“Ah?” she cooed.  “What a happy accident!  Mr. Goward, allow me to present you to my friend Dr. Denbigh.”

The doctor bowed with a portentous gravity.  It was almost the equal of Harry’s own.

After this satisfactory incident everybody fell back instinctively and gave the command of the expedition to me.  The boy anxiously yielded his place at the telegraph window to Tom; in fact, I took the pains to notice that Harry’s telegram was not sent, or was deferred to a more convenient season.  I invited him to run over to “The Happy Family” with us, and we all fell into rank again on the sidewalk, the boy not without embarrassment.  Of this I made it my first duty to relieve him.  We chatted of the weather and the theatre and hotels.  When we had walked a short distance, we met Charles Edward dawdling along over to “The Sphinx” (however reluctantly) to call upon his precious elder sister.  So we paired off naturally:  Aunt Elizabeth and the doctor in front, Goward and I behind them, and Tom and Charles Edward bringing up the rear.

My heart dropped when I saw what a family party air we had.  I felt it to my finger-tips, and I could see that the lad writhed under it.  His expression changed from misery to mutiny.  I should not have been surprised if he had made one plunge into the roaring current of Broadway and sunk from sight forever.  The thing that troubled me most was the poor taste of it:  as if the whole family had congregated in the metropolis to capture that unhappy boy.  For the first time I began to feel some sympathy for him.

“Mr. Goward,” I said, abruptly, in a voice too low even for Aunt Elizabeth to hear, “nobody wishes to make you uncomfortable.  We are not here for any such purpose.  I have something in my pocket to show you; that is all.  It will interest you, I am sure.  As soon as we get to the hotel, if you don’t mind, I will tell you about it—­or, in fact, will give it to you.  Count the rest out.  They are not in the secret.”