been an occasional roll of thunder, and the rain beat steadily
upon the roof. The first knock failed to rouse her. At the second a man
burst in, and stopped as suddenly in the dark end of the shop, shading
his eyes from the glare: then he came tiptoeing forward. Even in this
abrupt breaking in out of the storm there was something apologetic and
deprecating about the man. As he came up, still sheltering his eyes, as
though from the surprise of Kitty's loveliness, and not the fire, he had
the bearing of a modest actor called before the curtain for bouquets.

"I had not expected--_this_" with a stage wave of the hand toward
Catharine.

Now Kitty's pink ears, as we know, were always pricked for a compliment,
and her politeness was apt to carry her over the verge of lying; but she
was hardly civil now: she drew coldly back, wishing with all her heart
that her lover, fat, simple, pure-minded little Muller, were here to
protect her. Yet Mrs. Guinness, no doubt, would have said this man was
made of finer clay than the clergyman. Both figure and face were small
and delicate: his dress was finical and dainty, from the fur-topped
overshoes to the antique seal and the trimming of his gray moustache. He
drew off his gloves, holding a white, wrinkled hand to the fire, but
Catharine felt the colorless eyes passing over her again and again.

"Your business," she said, "is probably with my father?"

"Your father is Peter Guinness? No. My business hardly deserves the
name, in fact," leisurely stopping to smooth and fold the yellow gloves
between his palms, in order to prolong his sentences. "It was merely to
leave a message for his son, for Hugh Guinness."

"Hugh Guinness is dead."

"Dead!" For an instant the patting of the gloves ceased, and he looked
at her steadily; then, with a nod of comprehension, he went on: "Oh, it
is not convenient for Hugh to be alive just now? We are old comrades,
you see: I know his ways. I know he was in Delaware a year ago. But I
have no time now to go to Delaware. The message will no doubt reach him
if left with you." He had made the gloves into a square package by this
time, and, flattening it with a neat pat or two, put it in his pocket,
turning to her with a significant smile.

"Hugh Guinness is dead," said Catharine. "He died in Nicaragua five
years ago. Your business with him ended then."

"And yet--" coming a step nearer, "yet if Guinness were in his grave
now, I fancy he would think my busi