"It is, though," said Ashton, "but what of that? you don't surely call
twelve o'clock bad hours for once in a way?"

"No, not for once in a way," replied George; "but I have never kept my
mother up so late before. Good-bye, old fellow. Promise to come and see
me some night this week. There is my address." And so saying, George ran
out into the street and made his way towards Islington.

That was an anxious night for Mrs. Weston. "What can have happened?" she
asked herself a hundred times. Fortunately, Mr. Brunton called, and he
assisted to while away the time.

"George does not often stay out of an evening, does he?" he asked.

"No, never," replied Mrs. Weston; "unless it is with his friend, Charles
Hardy, and then I always know where they are, and what they are doing.
But something extraordinary must have happened to-night, and I feel very
anxious to know what it is. Not that I think he is anywhere he ought not
to be. I feel sure he is not," continued Mrs. Weston confidently; "but
what it is that has detained him, I am altogether at a loss to guess."

"Well, I will not leave you till he comes home," said Mr. Brunton.

It was one o'clock before George arrived; it was too late to get an
omnibus, and a cab, he thought, was altogether out of the question;
therefore he had to walk the whole distance--or rather run, for he was
as anxious now to get home as they were to see him.

He was very much surprised, and, if it must be confessed, rather vexed