she recognized an unmistakable flavor of
roguishness.

"Thinking of him?" he inquired.

Poor Jean nearly jumped out of her chair.

"Of--of whom?" she gasped.

"The artist fellow, what's his name--Vernon."

"Father!" she said in a low, pained voice.

"Eh? What's the matter?"

She looked at him between grief and amazement.

"You said that his name was never to be mentioned. Do you mean to--why
do you--what do you mean, father?"

Mr. Walkingshaw was finding it harder every day to retain his old
attitudes in all their dignity. He was altering at an astonishing pace.
How many years younger he had become already he could not compute. He
had tried once or twice to calculate about where he stood but the
surprising thing was that he found he cared less and less what was
happening, and how fast it happened. He enjoyed himself amazingly so
long as he did not worry; and the obvious moral was--don't worry. At the
same time, he had no intention whatsoever of forfeiting the respect of
his fellow-citizens, still less of his family. It was true this proviso
occurred to him more often after than before he had surprised them by
some trifling deviation; still, when it did occur, it occurred forcibly.
On this present occasion he suddenly became preternaturally solemn,
coughed with a little dry, respectable sound, and replied severely--

"I meant that it must never be mentioned by you, but--ahem--it
is--ah--different with your father. I still leave myself at liberty
to mention him with reprobation."

Jean jumped up with a sparkling eye.

"In that case I'll leave you. I've obeyed you so far, but I certainly
shan't obey you if you tell me to sit and listen to _anything_ against
him!"

And she started for the door.

"My dear girl!" cried Mr. Walkingshaw.

He jumped up too, caught her by the hand, and led her to the sofa.

"Now, now," he said kindly; "sit down and tell me all about it."

She looked at him in fresh amazement.

"All about what?"

He found it a little difficult to explain precisely what he meant. He
only knew that he felt an unwonted expansion of his heart towards this
really charming little daughter.

"All about the weather and crops," he suggested playfully.

Jean began to tremble a little.

"I--I don't understand you at all," said she.

He smiled pleasantly.

"Am I such a very mysterious old fellow?"

At this odd and novel mixture of kindness and queerness she felt her
words choking her, as much