ed him to go in for
this so-called system."

"Oh, but it's possible to overdo everything, you know," said the lady,
with a smile whose sweetness he inwardly decided to be compounded of
some base imitation of sugar. "Don't you agree with me, Heriot?"

"Absolutely," pronounced her host, with emphasis.

So passionate a lover naturally regretted parting even for a moment from
his betrothed, yet under the circumstances Andrew felt decidedly
relieved when the ladies left the room, and the three Walkingshaw men
drew together at the end of the table. His father passed the port to his
sons and then helped himself. Andrew frowned again: he believed in never
neglecting an opportunity for salutary criticism.

"Oh, you're going to take port too?"

"I am," said Mr. Walkingshaw, and drinking his glass straight off,
filled it afresh.

Andrew drew down the corners of his lips, raised his eyebrows, and
glanced across at his brother; but Frank was staring abstractedly at the
tablecloth.

The second glass seemed to revive their father. He smacked his lips over
it with something of his old gusto, threw out his chest, frowned
formidably, yet with a certain complacency, and said--

"I've had to perform an unpleasant duty this afternoon, Andrew."

Andrew pricked up his ears and looked sternly expectant. Yet on neither
of them did the idea of an unpleasant duty seem to have a saddening
effect.

"That fellow Vernon has been making love to Jean. I ordered him out of
the house. He's off to London again, I'm thankful to say."

"Upon my word!" said Andrew.

He looked as though he had been told of the attempted assassination of
the President of the Court of Session. But on Frank the news produced
quite a different effect. He started out of his reverie and exclaimed--

"You ordered him out? Poor Jean!"

The two older and wiser men turned upon him together.

"Yes, sir," said his father, "I did order him out. It would have been
'poor Jean' if I hadn't."

"I'd have kicked him downstairs!" said Andrew.

"You'd have had a devilish thin time if you'd tried," retorted his
brother. "Vernon could take you across his knee. He's a good fellow--a
deuced good fellow; he'd have made Jean a deuced good husband. Kick him
downstairs? By Gad, you'd have squealed when the kicking began!"

He addressed himself entirely to his brother, though he had done no more
than approve of the exiling of Lucas, and he spoke with a curious
bitterness. Mr. Walkin