st his doctor's opinion had been adverse to this form of diet
for a gentleman of gouty habit.

"But what about your gout, Heriot?" she asked.

"Gout? Fiddle-de-dee! Who's got gout? Not I, for one."

He had been glancing complacently at his improved reflection in the
mirror. Abruptly he stepped up close to the glass and examined his
visage with unconcealed excitement.

"Good God!" he murmured.

Then, with much the expression Crusoe must have worn when he spied the
footprint, he turned to his sister, and, grasping a lock of hair upon
his brow, bent his head towards her, and demanded--

"What color's that?"

"Dear me," she said, "it looks quite brown. I didn't know you had any
brown hair left."

He raised his head and looked at her in solemn silence till she began to
feel dreadfully confused. Then he bent again.

"Do you notice anything else?"

"N--no; unless your hair's got thicker. But that's not likely at your
time of life."

"It is _not_ likely," said he. "It is most improbable--in fact, it is
practically impossible; but it is thicker."

He rubbed his chin and gazed at her with the queerest look. Mary had
known him since he trundled a hoop, but she never remembered him go on
like this before. As for Heriot, he seemed to be debating whether he
should spring something still more surprising on her or not. But she
looked so uncomfortable already, so totally without the least clue to
his mysterious words, so unconscious of anything stranger about him than
his shirt-sleeves and loss of weight, that he only uttered something
between a gasp and a sigh, and, turning away from her, took up his
brushes to smooth his augmented hairs.

"I'll be down to breakfast in a jiffy," he said.

Miss Walkingshaw thought that an odd kind of phrase for Heriot to be
using.

CHAPTER IV

Andrew no longer walked to the office with his father in the mornings.
Not that _he_ had anything to do with the altered custom: in fact, he
was always most careful to assure his friends that he had more than once
waited as long as five minutes to give his father the opportunity of
having his company--if he was wishing it. But Mr. Walkingshaw was never
less than ten minutes late nowadays.

On this particular morning he set forth a full half-hour after his son.
He had been very absent-minded after his talk with his sister,--not even
Mrs. Dunbar could keep his attention for more than a moment,--and he had
sat for the best part of twent