on.
The world has a wife for every man; if he hasn't found her by the time
he's thirty-five, there's some real reason for it. Well, I don't want
to pry into yours, but I hope it's a sound one and not a mean,
sneaking, selfish sort of reason. Perhaps you'll choose a Madam Selwyn
some day yet. In case you should I'm going to give you a small bit of
good advice. Your mother--now, she's a splendid woman, Selwyn, a
splendid woman. She can't be matched as a housekeeper and she has
improved my finances until I don't know them when I meet them. She's
been a good wife and a good mother. If I were a young man I'd court
her and marry her over again, that I would. But, son, when _you_ pick
a wife pick one with a nice little commonplace nose, not a family
nose. Never marry a woman with a family nose, son."

A woman with a family nose came into the library at this juncture and
beamed maternally upon them both. "There's a bite for you in the
dining room. After you've eaten it you must dress. Mind you brush your
hair well down, Father. The green room is ready for you, Selwyn.
Tomorrow I'll have a good talk with you, but tonight I'll be too busy
to remember you're around. How are we all going to get over to
Wish-ton-wish? Leo and Bertha are going in the pony carriage. It won't
hold a third passenger. You'll have to squeeze in with Father and me
in the buggy, Selwyn."

"By no means," replied Selwyn briskly. "I'll walk over to
Wish-ton-wish. Ifs only half a mile across lots. I suppose the old way
is still open?"

"It ought to be," answered Mr. Grant drily; "Leo has kept it well
trodden. If you've forgotten how it runs he can tell you."

"I haven't forgotten," said Selwyn, a little brusquely. He had his own
reasons for remembering the wood path. Leo had not been the first
Grant to go courting to Wish-ton-wish.

When he started, the moon was rising round and red and hazy in an
eastern hill-gap. The autumn air was mild and spicy. Long shadows
stretched across the fields on his right and silvery mosaics patterned
the floor of the old beechwood lane. Selwyn walked slowly. He was
thinking of Esme Graham or, rather, of the girl who had been Esme
Graham, and wondering if he would see her at the wedding. It was
probable, and he did not want to see her. In spite of ten years'
effort, he did not think he could yet look upon Tom St. Clair's wife
with the proper calm indifference. At the best, it would taint his own
memory of her; he would neve