heaven.

The rest of the company at dinner consisted of Mr. Walkingshaw,
evidently proud of his future daughter-in-law, yet singularly silent and
abstracted; Miss Walkingshaw, very erect at the end of the table; Jean,
very downcast, poor girl (yet did she not deserve to be?); Frank,
looking for some reason considerably less happy than when he handed
Miss Berstoun out of her carriage; and Mrs. Dunbar. Madge Dunbar was a
second cousin, and the widow of Captain Dunbar of Hammersmith's Horse,
who was killed at Paardeberg. She was left with no children, a very
small income, and a number of relatives occupying excellent stations in
life. With one or other of these she generally stayed, but latterly had
shown a decided preference for the hospitality of Mr. Walkingshaw. In
fact, she had already been with them for three months, and as Mr.
Walkingshaw was always very emphatic in his refusals to let her think of
leaving, and remarkably gracious on every occasion on which they were
seen in company, while his sister declared her to be one of the best
women she knew, acquaintances had begun to exchange whispers. She was
forty-five, full-figured, though not yet precisely stout, dark-eyed, and
irreproachably dressed. She was also irreproachably diplomatic.

Champagne was drunk in honor of Miss Berstoun, and as being the beverage
most suitable to her pedigree (though, as a matter of fact, she had only
tasted it twice before, since Archibald of that ilk confined himself to
whisky, and his wife to dandelion porter). As the butler passed behind
Mr. Walkingshaw's chair, his master arrested him by pointing to his
glass. The vigilant Andrew bent forward in his seat.

"Are you giving the system up?" he inquired, with his cross-examining
smile.

"I feel that a glass of wine would do me good to-night," his father
replied with dignity.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you enjoying yourself again, Heriot!" smiled
Mrs. Dunbar.

"Thank you. Thank you, Madge," said he, and made a little courteously
old-fashioned indication that he drank to her health.

The lady in a sprightly fashion returned his toast, and the junior
partner frowned. He disapproved of Mrs. Dunbar, he strongly suspected
her of ulterior designs, and he regarded the adoption of Christian names
by second cousins as superfluous, and in the circumstances a little
indecorous. His long upper lip grew longer as he addressed his relative.

"I was under the impression it was you who encourag