ant visitor, Mr. Loring," she
remarked, turning from the window. "A gentleman just turned in at our
gate, and he does look like Judge Clarkson."

Gertrude left the room to join the others who were talking and
laughing in the arbor, a few steps across the lawn. Mrs. McVeigh
busied herself cutting some yellowing leaves from the plants on the
stand by the window. Loring watched her with a peculiar peering gaze.
His failing sight caused him to pucker his brows in a frown when he
desired to inspect anything intently, and it was that regard he was
now directing toward Mrs. McVeigh, who certainly was worth looking at
by any man.

The dainty lace cap she wore had tiny bows of violet showing among the
lace, and it someway had the effect of making her appear more youthful
instead of adding matronliness. The lawn she wore had violet lines
through it, and the flowing sleeves had undersleeves of sheer white
gathered at the wrist. The wide lace collar circled a throat scarcely
less white, and altogether made a picture worth study, though Matthew
Loring's view of it was rather blurred because of the failure of
vision which he denied whenever opportunity offered; next to paralysis
there was nothing he dreaded so much as blindness, and even to Delaven
he denied--uselessly--any tendency in that direction.

"Hum!" he grunted, at last, with a cynical smile; "if Gid Clarkson
keeps up his habit of visiting you regularly, as he has done for the
past ten years, you ought to know him a mile away by this time."

"Oh!"--Mrs. McVeigh was refastening her brooch before the mirror, "not
ten years, quite."

"Well, long enough to be refused three times to my certain knowledge;
why, he doesn't deny it--proud to let the country know his devotion to
the most charming of her sex," and he gave an ironical little nod for
which she exchanged one of her sweetest smiles.

"Glad you looked at me when you said that," she remarked, lightly;
"and we do depend on Judge Clarkson so much these days I don't know
what I ever would do if his devotion dwindled in the least. But I
fancy his visit this morning is on your account instead of mine."

At that moment the white hat of Clarkson could be seen above the
veranda railing, and Mrs. McVeigh threw open the glass doors as he
appeared at the top of the steps with an immense boquet held with
especial care--the Judge's one hobby in the realm of earth-grown
things was flowers.

He bowed when he caught sight of the m