twenty and he forty (and here is another story, and a sad
one)--she the belle of her time--and sole heir to the estate of her
grandfather, Captain Hugh Barkeley, the rich ship-owner--and that the
alliance had made him a gentleman of unlimited leisure, she, at her
death, having left all her property to her daughter Kate, with the
Honorable Prim as custodian.

And this trust, to his credit be it said--for Seymour was of Scotch
descent, a point in his favor with old Captain Barkeley, who was
Scotch on his mother's side, and, therefore, somewhat canny--was most
religiously kept, he living within his ample means--or Kate's, which was
the same thing--discharging the duties of father, citizen, and friend,
with the regularity of a clock--so many hours with his daughter, so many
hours at his club, so many hours at his office; the intermediate minutes
being given over to resting, dressing, breakfasting, dining, sleeping,
and no doubt praying; the precise moment that marked the beginning and
ending of each task having been fixed years in advance by this most
exemplary, highly respectable, and utterly colorless old gentleman of
sixty.

That this dry shell of a man could be the father of our spontaneous
lovely Kate was one of the things that none of the younger people around
Kennedy Square could understand--but then few of them had known her
beautiful mother with her proud step and flashing eyes.

But it is not the punctilious, methodical Prim whom St. George wishes to
see to-night; nor does he go through any of the formalities customary
to the house. There is no waiting until old Ben, the family butler in
snuff-colored coat and silver buttons, shuffles upstairs or into the
library, or wherever the inmates were to be found, there to announce
"Massa George Temple." Nor did he send in his card, or wait until his
knock was answered. He simply swung back the gate until the old chain
and ball, shocked at his familiarity, rattled itself into a rage, strode
past the neatly trimmed, fragrant box, pushed open the door--no front
door was ever locked in the daytime in Kennedy Square, and few at
night--and halting at the bottom step, called up the silent stairs in a
voice that was a joyous greeting in itself:

"Kate, you darling! come down as quick as your dear little feet will
carry you! It's Uncle George, do you hear?--or shall I come up and bring
you down in my arms, you bunch of roses? It won't be the first time."
The first time was wh