y or so. Is there any reason why I shouldn't run over
and have dinner with Jean and the boys to-night?"

"Certainly there is. Didn't I tell you Mr. Huntley is just back from
the West? He's coming to dinner."

"But you won't want a frivolous person like me round. He'll want to
talk business to you all evening."

"That doesn't matter. You ought to be interested in my business.
Besides, he's a charming bachelor, so I want you to behave nicely."

"I couldn't think of it. I feel sure I'd make a better impression if I
stayed away, anyway." She was gathering the dark folds of her cloak
about her light evening dress as she spoke. "He might feel embarrassed
if we met again. The last time he laid his fortune at my feet and I
spurned it with scorn."

"What are you talking about, you absurd child? Did you ever meet Blake
Huntley in Cheemaun?"

The girl came back to the fire, her eyes dancing. "No, it was in
prehistoric times--at Forest Glen. I remember I was dressed mostly in
a sunbonnet and the remains of a pinafore--and I think I was in
Highland costume as to shoes and stockings. Mr. Huntley evidently felt
sorry for me and offered me a silver dollar, which was too much for my
Gordon pride. Even Aunt Margaret approved of my refusing it, though
she felt it might have been done in a more genteel manner."

The lady in the lounging chair laughed, and her astute young companion
saw her chance. "I'm going to run over and see Jean and the boys just
for five minutes," she said in a wheedling tone. "I shall be back in
time for dinner."

"Well, see that you are." The elder woman's voice had lost all its
fretfulness. She looked quite pleased. "You must remind Blake Huntley
of your former acquaintance. What was he doing at The Dale?"

"He had come to see about"--the girl hesitated--"selling old Sandy
McLachlan's farm." Her big gray eyes looked steadily and solemnly into
her companion's.

The lady poured herself another cup of tea. She gave an impatient
shrug. The old subject of Eppie Turner's wrongs had become unbearably
wearisome. "Well, don't air any more of your romantic ideas concerning
her. You'll never find her anyway. And don't stay long at No. 15.
You go there so often I shall soon begin to suspect you have lost your
heart to that bonny Prince Charlie--he's handsome enough."

"Charles Stuart?" The girl laughed aloud at the absurdity. "The poor
Pretender! Don't hint your horrible suspicions to