nked lane, leaving Helen
with an impressive, half-alarming memory of the two jolted figures,
black, with white ovals for faces, side by side, and Zebedee's spare
frame clearing itself, now and then, from the other's breadth.

In the drawing-room, Uncle Alfred sat on one side of the hearth and
Miriam on the other. The room was softly lighted by candles and the
fire, and at the dimmer end Mr. Pinderwell's bride was smiling. The
sound of Mildred Caniper's needle, as she worked at an embroidery
frame, was added to the noises of the fire and Uncle Alfred's regular
pulling at his pipe. Rupert was proving his capacity for silence on the
piano stool.

"And which country," Miriam asked, leaning towards her uncle, "do you
like best?"

"Oh--well, I hardly know."

"I never care for the sound of Africa--so hot."

"Hottish," conceded Uncle Alfred.

"Oh, Lord!" Rupert groaned in spirit.

"And South America, full of crocodiles, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"Haven't you been there?"

"Yes, yes--parts of it."

"Miriam," said Mildred Caniper, "Alfred is not a geography book."

"But he ought to be," she dared.

"And," the cool voice went on, "you never cared for geography, I
remember."

Miriam sat back sullenly, stiffening until her prettily shod feet
reached an inch further along the fender. Rupert would not relieve the
situation and the visitor smoked on, watching Miriam through his tobacco
smoke, until a knock came at the door.

"I beg your pardon, M'm--"

"It's Mother Samson," said Rupert. "Shall I look after her?"

"No. I will go." The door closed quietly behind Mrs. Caniper.

Uncle Alfred lowered his pipe. "You are extraordinarily like your
mother," he said in quick and agitated tones, and the life of the room
was changed amazingly. Rupert turned on his seat, and his elbow scraped
the piano notes so that they jangled like a hundred questions. Miriam
slipped out of her chair.

"Am I?" she asked from her knees. "I knew I was. Tell me!"

He put his hand to his breast-pocket. "Ah," he said, as a step sounded
in the passage, "perhaps tomorrow--"

Miriam lifted the poker. "Because you mustn't poke the fire, Uncle
Alfred," she was saying as Mildred Caniper came back. "You haven't known
us long enough." She turned to her stepmother. "Did Mrs. Samson want her
money? She's saving up. She's going to have a new dress this summer
because she hasn't had one since she was married."

"And if she hadn't married," Rupert went on