at the absence of Adrian Grant, as Mrs. Charles had been
straining every nerve to provide a meal worthy of the man.

"P'raps he'll be to-morrow," said Edward John "Poor old Jukes 'll feel a
bit left. He'd been building on 'aving 'im."

"I'm sorry for the trouble he has caused you all, and I hope he may yet
turn up so that you won't be disappointed."

"Never mind, 'Enry, my lad, it's you we want in the first place, and
right glad we are to see you. The vicar was in asking for you this
afternoon. You'll know a difference on the old man. Going down the 'ill,
he is. But we're all growing older every day, as the song says. You're
filling out now, and that's good. I said you were growing all to legs
last time. Aye, aye, 'ere you are again."

"You haven't been troubled with your chest, Henry, I hope," said Mrs.
Charles, taking advantage of a moment when her husband did not seem to
have a question to ask.

"Chest! dear no, mother; always wear flannel next the skin, you know,"
her son replied lightly.

Mrs. Charles sighed, and her lips tightened as in pain.

"What books has Mr. Grant written?" Dora asked, _a propos_ of nothing.

"Some novels which I don't advise you to read," said Henry.

"Why that? I'm growing quite literary," his sister returned. "Eunice has
infected me; she's a great reader now."

At mention of the name, Henry coloured a little.

"Indeed!" he said. "She always had good taste, I think; but really I'm
sick of books and writing. I think you used to do pretty well without
them."

"Hearken at that," said his father. "Sick of books! It's the same all
over. Old Brag the butcher used to say, leave a cat free for a night in
the shop to eat all it could get, and it was safe to leave the beef
alone ever after. I'm sick o' postage stamps, but we've got to sell
'em."

"I'm not so tired of my work as all that," Henry went on, "but down here
I'm glad to get away from it."

We know this was scarcely true, as he had brought down his unfinished
manuscript of "that book" to work at it if he felt the mood come on. He
spoke chiefly to divert the conversation from the topic of Adrian
Grant's novels, which he felt he could not frankly discuss in this home
of simple life.

"I must call on Mr. Needham before Sunday," he added inconsequently to
his father.

"Eunice is at home just now, but she's going away on a visit to her aunt
at Tewksbury next week," said Dora, and Mrs. Charles watched the face
of her son anxio