t. Upon which humorous situation Norah, the nurse, entered.

"It's all right, Norah," said Mrs. Horncastle, laughing, as she
disengaged herself from the linking child. "Mr. Barker has claimed
the baby, and has agreed to forgive you and me and say nothing to Mrs.
Barker." Norah, with the inscrutable criticism of her sex on her sex,
thought it extremely probable, and halted with exasperating discretion.
"There," continued Mrs. Horncastle, playfully evading the child's
further advances, "go with papa, that's a dear. Mr. Barker prefers to
carry him back, Norah."

"But," said the ingenuous and persistent Barker, still lingering
in hopes of recalling the woman's previous expression, "you DO love
children, and you think him a bright little chap for his age?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Horncastle, putting back her loosened braid, "so round
and fat and soft. And such a discriminating eye for jewelry. Really you
ought to get a necklace like mine for Mrs. Barker--it would please both,
you know." She moved slowly away, the united efforts of Norah and Barker
scarcely sufficing to restrain the struggling child from leaping after
her as she turned at the door and blew him a kiss.

When Barker regained his room he found that Mrs. Barker had dismissed
Stacy from her mind except so far as to invoke Norah's aid in laying
out her smartest gown for dinner. "But why take all this trouble, dear?"
said her simple-minded husband; "we are going to dine in a private room
so that we can talk over old times all by ourselves, and any dress would
suit him. And, Lord, dear!" he added, with a quick brightening at the
fancy, "if you could only just rig yourself up in that pretty lilac gown
you used to wear at Boomville--it would be too killing, and just like
old times. I put it away myself in one of our trunks--I couldn't bear
to leave it behind; I know just where it is. I'll"--But Mrs. Barker's
restraining scorn withheld him.

"George Barker, if you think I am going to let you throw away and
utterly WASTE Mr. Stacy on us, alone, in a private room with closed
doors--and I dare say you'd like to sit in your dressing-gown and
slippers--you are entirely mistaken. I know what is due, not to your old
partner, but to the great Mr. Stacy, the financier, and I know what is
due FROM HIM TO US! No! We dine in the great dining-room, publicly, and,
if possible, at the very next table to those stuck-up Peterburys and
their Eastern friends, including that horrid woman, wh