e preferred the sallies of the parlour. He walked back to
his old position by the fireplace, and stood gazing moodily at the floor.

Mrs. Truefitt tired of the sport at last. She wanted her supper, and
with a significant glance at her daughter she beckoned the redoubtable
and reluctant Mrs. Porter from the room. Catesby heard the kitchen-door
close behind them, but he made no move. Prudence stood gazing at him in
silence.

"If you want to go," she said, at last, "now is your chance."

Catesby followed her into the passage without a word, and waited quietly
while she opened the door. Still silent, he put on his hat and passed
out into the darkening street. He turned after a short distance for a
last look at the house and, with a sudden sense of elation, saw that she
was standing on the step. He hesitated, and then walked slowly back.

"Yes?" said Prudence.

"I should like to tell your mother that I am sorry," he said, in a low
voice.

"It is getting late," said the girl, softly; "but, if you really wish to
tell her--Mrs. Porter will not be here to-morrow night."

She stepped back into the house and the door closed behind her.

THE CHANGING NUMBERS

The tall clock in the corner of the small living-room had just struck
eight as Mr. Samuel Gunnill came stealthily down the winding staircase
and, opening the door at the foot, stepped with an appearance of great
care and humility into the room. He noticed with some anxiety that his
daughter Selina was apparently engrossed in her task of attending to the
plants in the window, and that no preparations whatever had been made for
breakfast.

[Illustration: "Mr. Samuel Gunnill came stealthily down the winding
staircase."]

Miss Gunnill's horticultural duties seemed interminable. She snipped off
dead leaves with painstaking precision, and administered water with the
jealous care of a druggist compounding a prescription; then, with her
back still toward him, she gave vent to a sigh far too intense in its
nature to have reference to such trivialities as plants. She repeated it
twice, and at the second time Mr. Gunnill, almost without his knowledge,
uttered a deprecatory cough.

His daughter turned with alarming swiftness and, holding herself very
upright, favoured him with a glance in which indignation and surprise
were very fairly mingled.

"That white one--that one at the end," said Mr. Gunnill, with an
appearance of concentrated interest, "that's