er, she felt interested in the old man,
although she had never spoken to him; but he looked old and ill and
lonely; three decided claims on Olivia's bountiful and sympathetic
nature.

She knew his name--Mr. Gaythorne--he was a neighbour of theirs, and he
lived at Galvaston House, the dull-looking red brick house, with two
stone lions on the gate-posts.

Olivia had amused her husband more than once with imaginary stories
about their neighbour. "He was a miser--a recluse--a misanthrope--he
had a wife in a lunatic asylum--he had known some great trouble that
had embittered his life; he had made a vow never to let a human being
cross his threshold; he was a Roman Catholic priest in disguise, an
Agnostic, a Nihilist." There was no end to Olivia's quaint surmises,
but she could only be certain of two facts--that the mysterious Mr.
Gaythorne was methodical by nature, and whatever might be the weather
always took his exercise at the same hour, and also that only
tradespeople entered the lion-guarded portals of Galvaston House.

Olivia had only once come face to face with him. She was hurrying
along one afternoon, when in turning a corner she almost ran against
him, and pulled herself up with a confused word of apology.

A suppressed grunt answered her, a singular old face, with bright,
deeply-sunken eyes, and a white, peaked beard and moustache seemed to
rise stiffly from the fur-lined collar; then the old man's hand touched
his slouched hat mechanically, and he walked on. It was that night
that Olivia was convinced that Mr. Gaythorne was a Nihilist and an
Agnostic, and hinted darkly at the storage of dynamite and infernal
machines in the cellars of Galvaston House.

"My dear child, you might write a novel," had been her husband's remark
on this. "Your imagination is really immense," but in spite of sarcasm
and gibes on Marcus's part, Olivia chose to indulge in these harmless
fancies. She had always enjoyed making up stories about her
neighbours, and it did no one any harm.

When Mr. Gaythorne was out of sight she went to the kitchen to take a
last look at Dot, who was slumbering peacefully in her cot; the kitchen
was the warmest place, and Martha could clean her knives and wash her
plates and keep an eye on her.

Martha gave her usual broad grin when her mistress entered; the little
handmaid adored her master and mistress and Dot. During her rare
holiday she always entertained her mother and brothers and sisters