a long time
getting a light.

Then with a glance of inquiry, he said, "Edith Parker?"

"Why, don't you know her?" I asked.

"I know a half a hundred Parkers," he replied. "I may know Edith
Parker, but I can't recall her."

"This one is your book-keeper's daughter," I said with considerable
heat.

"Indeed," said he calmly. "Parker--Parker--I thought our book-keeper's
name was Smyth. Yes--I'm quite sure it's Smyth."

"But Tim says it's Parker," said I. "Tim ought to know."

"Tim should know," laughed Weston. "I guess he does know better than
I. A minute ago I would have sworn it was Smyth; but to tell the
truth, I never gave any attention to such details of business. Well,
Edith is my book-keeper's daughter."

"She lives in Brooklyn," said I, "and she is very beautiful. Every
letter I get from Tim, the more beautiful she becomes, for in all my
life I never heard of a fellow as frank as he is. Usually men hide
what sentiment they have except from a few women, but his letters make
me blush when I read them."

"They are so full of gush," said Weston, calmly smoking.

He seemed very indifferent, and to be more listening to the cries of
the dogs working around the hollow than to the affairs of the Hope
family.

"Gush is the word for it," I answered. "Tim never gives me a line
about himself. It's all Edith--Edith--Edith."

"And he is engaged to Miss Smyth?" Weston struck his legging a sharp
blow with his stick. "Confound it!" he cried, "I can't get it out of
my head that our book-keeper's name is Smyth."

"But Tim knows, surely," said I.

"Yes--he must," answered Weston. "Of course I'm wrong. But this Miss
Parker--are they engaged?"

"I can't tell from his last letter," I replied. "It seems that they
must be pretty near it--that's what Mary says, too."

Weston started. Then he rose to his feet very slowly, and wheeling
about looked down on me and smoked.

"Mary says so too," he repeated. "How in the world does Mary know?"

"I read her the letter," said I, apologetically. It did seem wrong to
read Tim's letter that way. From my standpoint it was all right now,
but Weston did not know that, so he whistled softly to himself.

From the hollow came the long-drawn cry of the hound. It was old
Captain. Betsy joined in, then Mike; and now the ridges rang with the
music of the chase. They were on a fresh trail; they were away over
hill and hollow, singing full-throated as they ran.

"The