etebos.' That was the line."

"It sounds like a charm."

"No, it is a gentleman's name. Three gentlemen, I thought, at first, but
my aunt says one. Then he goes on, `Thinketh he dwelleth in the light of
the moon.' It was a very trying piece."

Clara Walker laughed again.

"You must not think of leaving your aunt," she said. "Think how lonely
she would be without you."

"Well, yes, I have thought of that. But you must remember that my aunt
is to all intents hardly middle-aged, and a very eligible person. I
don't think that her dislike to mankind extends to individuals. She
might form new ties, and then I should be a third wheel in the coach.
It was all very well as long as I was only a boy, when her first husband
was alive."

"But, good gracious, you don't mean that Mrs. Westmacott is going to
marry again?" gasped Clara.

The young man glanced down at her with a question in his eyes. "Oh, it
is only a remote, possibility, you know," said he. "Still, of course,
it might happen, and I should like to know what I ought to turn my hand
to."

"I wish I could help you," said Clara. "But I really know very little
about such things. However, I could talk to my father, who knows a very
great deal of the world."

"I wish you would. I should be so glad if you would."

"Then I certainly will. And now I must say good-night, Mr. Westmacott,
for papa will be wondering where I am."

"Good night, Miss Walker." He pulled off his flannel cap, and stalked
away through the gathering darkness.

Clara had imagined that they had been the last on the lawn, but, looking
back from the steps which led up to the French windows, she saw two dark
figures moving across towards the house. As they came nearer she could
distinguish that they were Harold Denver and her sister Ida. The
murmur of their voices rose up to her ears, and then the musical little
child-like laugh which she knew so well. "I am so delighted," she heard
her sister say. "So pleased and proud. I had no idea of it. Your words
were such a surprise and a joy to me. Oh, I am so glad."

"Is that you, Ida?"

"Oh, there is Clara. I must go in, Mr. Denver. Good-night!"

There were a few whispered words, a laugh from Ida, and a "Good-night,
Miss Walker," out of the darkness. Clara took her sister's hand, and
they passed together through the long folding window. The Doctor had
gone into his study, and the dining-room was empty. A single small red
lamp upon the sideboard was re