ed candle.

"One moment, Herr Doctor."

He whisked off again and presently returned, holding under his arm
something that was wrapped in many pieces of ragged silk. One by one
these were removed, and at last the treasure was revealed.

He held it off at arm's length, where the light might shine upon its
beauty, and well out of reach of a random touch. The Doctor said the
expected thing, but it fell upon deaf ears. The Master's fine face was
alight with more than earthly joy, and he stroked the brown breasts
lovingly.

"Mine Cremona!" he breathed. "Mine--all mine!"

VIII

A Bit of Human Driftwood

"Present company excepted," remarked Lynn, "this village is full of
fossils."

"At what age does one get to be a 'fossil,'" asked Aunt Peace, her eyes
twinkling. "Seventy-five?"

"That isn't fair," Lynn answered, resentfully. "You're younger than any
of us, Aunt Peace,--you're seventy-five years young."

"So I am," she responded, good humouredly. She was upon excellent terms
with this tall, straight young fellow who had brought new life into her
household. A March wind, suddenly sweeping through her rooms, would have
had much the same effect.

"Am I a fossil?" asked Margaret, who had overheard the conversation.

"You're nothing but a kid, mother. You've never grown up. I can do what
I please with you." He picked her up, bodily, and carried her, flushed
and protesting, to her favourite chair, and dumped her into it. "Aunt
Peace, is there any place in the house where you might care to go?"

"Thank you, no. I'll stay where I am, if I may. I'm very comfortable."

Lynn paced back and forth with a heavy tread which resounded upon the
polished floor. Iris happened to be passing the door and looked in,
anxiously, for signs of damage.

"Iris," laughed Miss Field, "what a little old maid you are! You remind
me of that story we read together."

"Which story, Aunt Peace?"

"The one in which the over-neat woman married a careless man to reform
him. She used to follow him around with a brush and dustpan and sweep up
after him."

"That would make him nice and comfortable," observed Lynn. "What became
of the man?"

"He was sent to the asylum."

"And the woman?" asked Margaret.

"She died of a broken heart."

"I think I'd be in the asylum too," said Lynn. "I do not desire to be
swept up after."

"Nobody desires to sweep up after you," retorted Iris, "but it has to be
done. Otherwise the house would be uni