he count was obliged to roll up the
sleeves and legs of a frock suit which fitted Shaw rather too snugly.
The duke, larger than the others, was passably fair in an old
swallow-tail coat and brown trousers. They were clean, but there was
a strong odor of arnica about them. Each wore, besides, an uncertain,
sheepish smile.

Hot coffee, chops, griddle cakes, and maple syrup soon put the
contending forces at their ease. Bazelhurst so far forgot himself as
to laugh amiably at his host's jokes. The count responded in his most
piquant dialect, and the duke swore by an ever-useful Lord Harry that
he had never tasted such a breakfast.

"By Jove, Pen," exclaimed her brother, in rare good humor, "it's
almost a sin to take you away from such good cooking as this."

"You're not going to take her away, however," said Shaw. "She has come
to stay."

There was a stony silence. Coffee-cups hung suspended in the journey
to mouths, and three pairs of eyes stared blankly at the smiling
speaker.

"What--what the devil do you mean, sir?" demanded Lord Cecil, his
coffee-cup shaking so violently that the contents overflowed.

"She's going over to Plattsburg with me to-day, and when she comes
back she will be Mrs. Randolph Shaw. That's what I mean, your
lordship."

Three of his listeners choked with amazement and then coughed
painfully. Feebly they set their cups down and gulped as if they had
something to swallow. The duke was the first to find his tongue, and
he was quite at a loss for words.

"B--by Jove," he said blankly, "that's demmed hot coffee!"

"Is this true, Penelope?" gasped his lordship.

"Yes, Cecil. I've promised to marry him."

"Good God! It isn't because you feel that you have no home with me?"

"I love him. It's a much older story than you think," she said simply.

"I say, that hits me hard," said the duke, with a wry face. "Still, I
join in saying God bless you."

"We're trying to end the feud, you see," said Penelope.

Tears came into his lordship's pale eyes. He looked first at one and
then at the other, and then silently extended his hand to Randolph
Shaw. He wrung it vigorously for a long time before speaking. Then, as
if throwing a weight off his mind, he remarked:

"I say, Shaw, I'm sorry about that dog. I've got an English
bull-terrier down there that's taken a ribbon or so. If you don't
mind, I'll send him up to you. He--he knows Penelope."

THE CASE OF MRS. MAGNUS

BY BURTON E. STEVENSON