t forgive you for loving the son of Judge Wainwright? He was my best
friend and his son will make my daughter the best husband in the world.
Give me your hand, Harold," he continued, after he had kissed Florence
affectionately, "you are your father's own boy."

"That is the best compliment you could pay me," answered Harold.

"I know it is, and you know I mean it when I say I expect to see you on
the federal bench yourself some day."

"Luncheon is getting cold, sir," said the old family butler, coming into
the room and looking far from amiable.

"Let it wait, Thomas," said the Judge, "until you can get a bottle of
champagne up from the cellar. We have some healths to drink to-day,
haven't we, children?"

That evening the little church was lighted up for evening service, and
again the rustling of fans ceased, and heads were turned around as
Florence and Harold took their seats. But Harold's eyes were no longer
directed toward the pew in front of him, and the doctor's daughter
remarked that the two people in front of her stood unnecessarily close
to each other during the hymns, while the postmaster's wife made up her
mind that people who "smirk and look so silly durin' meetin' must be
sparkin'." In fact the homely folk of Fairville were not slow of
perception; many were the gossiping heads put together that night, and
it was a curious coincidence that there was no dissenting voice in
regard to the probability of a certain event having taken place that
afternoon.

Going home that night, Florence and Harold walked with the tarrying step
of lovers, but the Judge was not waiting luncheon, and, as the evening
was warm and bright, they rested again under the willows, watching the
moonlight play on the ripples of the lake. They were planning for the
future, and many were the rosy tinted castles reared in that soft night
air under the shade of the trees they loved so well. The moon shone
kindly over the mountain top at the farther end of the lake, and the
waves plashed softly on the pebbles at their feet, as Florence sat there
with her head resting on Harold's shoulder, dreaming the sweetest dream
of life.

CHAPTER XII.

UNREST.

The sun was streaming through the Sanderson's library window, and the
curtains were fluttering in the soft lake breeze which blew through the
open casement. Across the driveway a policeman was chatting with a trim
nursery maid, and two or three loungers were leaning over the sea wall,