ding in front of the fire, alternately
rising on tiptoe and thumping down on his heels.

"Don't I just! When shall we start--to-morrow morning?"

"To-morrow! But I haven't done any packing."

"Well, no more have I. We'll just chuck in a few things and buy anything
else we want in London. I need practically a new outfit myself. Can you
introduce me to a good tailor?"

"Ye--es," stammered Frank.

"That's all settled, then."

Mr. Walkingshaw began to laugh mysteriously.

"I'd like to see Andrew's face when he learns I've gone!"

"But aren't you going to tell him?"

Mr. Walkingshaw's voice sank.

"Not a word to any of them, Frank! You put my things into your cab
without any one noticing; I'll say I'm going to the office; and we'll
meet at the station. I don't want to get talked about, you see."

It was reassuring to find that Mr. Walkingshaw still valued his
reputation, even though the measures he took to preserve it were not
excessively convincing.

"All right, then," said Frank; "I'd better go and pack now. Good-night."

"Good-night, my boy," his father answered fervently. "God bless you!"

The Cromarty Highlander had been through some nerve-testing experiences,
but, as he went to his room, he realized that the severest ordeals often
occur in civil life.

Meanwhile, his parent at a leisurely pace was following him upstairs
when he perceived a light still burning in the drawing-room. He gently
pushed the door open, and a smile of peculiar pleasure irradiated his
rosy face. There, busy at the writing-table and quite alone, sat the
sympathetic widow. He remembered how prettily she had answered a simple
interjection once before.

"Hullo!" he warbled.

CHAPTER VII

The widow started and turned in her chair. This time she did not archly
cap his greeting. Instead, her exclamation had a tincture of alarm. He
was so very unlike his usual self.

"Writing a billet-doux?" he inquired, still smiling.

He softly closed the door behind him, and approached her with a kind of
jaunty, springy gait that increased her perplexity. She loved to see him
lively, but this smirking manner was really almost peculiar.

"May I sit at your feet, Madge?" he asked, and without waiting for an
answer, drew up a footstool and planted himself so close to her knees
that the sense of propriety felt by all fine women with any experience
of life impelled her to withdraw them some three inches farther from his
shoulder. At the