He had sprung from his seat and at every sentence had tried to take her in his arms, but she kept her palms toward him.

"No, don't touch me! You shall hear me out; I must empty all my heart! I was lonely and heart-sore and driven half wild with doubts and what people said, my father worse than all of them. And Mr. Willits was kind and always at my beck and call-and so thoughtful and attentive -and I tried and tried-but I couldn't. I always had you before me—and you haunted me day and night, and sometimes when he would come in that door I used to start, hoping it might be you."

"It is me, my darling!" he cried, springing toward her. "I don't want to hear any more-I must-I will

"But you must-you shall! There is something more. It went on and on and I got so that I did not care, and one day I thought I would give him my promise and the next day all my soul rebelled against it and it was that way until one night Mr. Horn read aloud a story-and it all came over me and I saw everything plain as if it had been on a stage, and myself and you and Mr. Willits-and what it meant-and what would come of it-and he walked home with me and I told him frankly, and I have never seen him since. And now here is the last and you must hear it out: There is not a word I have said to him which I would recall-not a thing I am ashamed of. Your lips were the last that touched my own. There, my darling, it is all told. I love you with my whole heart and soul and mind and body-I have never loved any body else I have tried and tried and couldn't. I am so tired of thinking for myself, so tired, so tired. Take me and do with me as you will!"

Again the plot is too strong for the dialogue. He had her fast in his arms before the last part of her confession was finished. Then the two sank on the sofa and she lay sobbing, he crooning over her-patting her cheeks, kissing away the wet drops from her eyelids; smoothing the strands of her hair with his strong, firm hands. It was his Kate that lay in his grasp-close tightly pressed-her heart beating against his, her warm, throbbing body next his own, her heart swept of every doubt and care, all her will gone.

As she grew quiet she stretched up her hand, touching his cheek with her finger as if to reassure herself that it was really her lover. Yes! It was Harry-her Harrywho was dead and is alive again—to whom she had stripped her soul naked-and who still trusted and loved her.

A little later she loosened herself from his embrace and taking his face in her small, white hands looked long and earnestly, smoothing back the hair from his brow as she used to do; kissing him on the forehead, on each eyelid, and then on the mouth—one of their old-time caresses. Still remembering the old days she threw back his coat and let her hands wander over his full-corded throat and chest and arms. How big and strong he had become; and how handsome he had grown-the boy merged into the man. And that other something(and another and stronger thrill shot through her) that other something which seemed to flow out of him; that dominating force that betokened leadership, compelling her to follow-not the imperiousness of his father, brooking no opposition no matter at what cost, but the leadership of experience, courage, and self-reliance.

Then the sense of possession swept over her. This was all her own and for ever! A man to lean upon; a man to be proud of;one who would listen and understand: to whom she could surrender her last stronghold-her will. And the comfort of it all; the rest, the quiet, the assurance of everlasting peace: she who had been so torn and buffeted and heart-sore.

For many minutes she lay still from sheer happiness, thrilled by the warmth and pressure of his strong arms. At last, when another thought could squeeze itself into her mind, she said: "Won't Uncle George be glad, Harry?"

"Yes," he answered, releasing her just far enough to look into her eyes. "It will make him well. You made him very happy this morning, His troubles are over, I hear-he's going to get a lot of his money back."

"Oh, I'm so glad. And will we take him with us?" she asked wonderingly, smoothing back his hair as she spoke.

"Take him where, darling?" he laughed. "To where we are going- No, you needn't laugh-I mean it. I don't care where we go," and she looked at him in

tently. "I'll go with you anywhere in the world you say, and I'll start to-morrow." He caught her in his arms again, kissed her for the hundredth time, and then suddenly relaxing his hold asked in assumed alarm: "And what about your father? What do you think he will say. He always thought me a madcap scapegrace didn't he?" The memory brought no regret. He didn't care a rap what the Honorable Prim thought of him.

"Yes-he thinks so now," she echoed, wondering how anybody could have formed any such ideas of her Harry.

"Well, he will get over it when I talk with him about his coffee people. Some of his agents out there want looking after." "Oh!-how lovely, my precious; talking coffee will be much pleasanter than talking me!—and yet we have got to do it somehow when he comes home."

And down went her head again, she nestling the closer as if terrified at the thought of the impending meeting; then another kiss followed-dozens of them-neither of them keeping count, and then-and then

And then- Ben tapped gently and announced that dinner was served, and Harry stared at the moon-faced dial and saw that it was long after two o'clock and wondered what in the world had become of the four hours that had passed since he had rushed down from his uncle's and into Kate's arms.

And so we will leave them-playing housekeeping-Harry pulling out her chair, she spreading her dainty skirts and saying, “Thank you, Mr. Rutter-" and Ben with his face in so broad a grin that it got set that way-Aunt Dinah, the cook, having to ask him three times "Was he gwine to hab a fit" before he could answer by reason of the chuckle which was suffocating him.

And now as we must close the door for a brief space on the happy couple-never so happy in all their lives-it will be just as well for us to find out what the mischief is going on at the club-for there is something going on-and that of unusual importance.

Everybody is out on the front steps-old Bowdoin is craning his short neck, and Judge Pancoast is saying that it is impos

sible and then instantly changing his mind, saying: "By Jove, it is!"—and Richard Horn and Warfield and Murdoch are leaning over the balcony rails still unconvinced, and old Harding is pounding his fat thigh with his pudgy hand in ill-concealed delight.

Yes-there is no doubt of it—hasn't been any doubt of it since the judge shouted out the glad tidings which emptied every chair in the club: Across the park, beyond the rickety, vine-covered fence and close beside the Temple Mansion, stands a four-inhand, the afternoon sun flashing from the silver mountings of the harness and glinting on the polished body and wheels of the coach. Then a crack of the whip, a wind of the horn, and they are off, the leaders stretching the traces, two men on the box, two grooms in the rear. Hurrah! Well, by thunder, who would have believed it-that's Temple inside on the back seat! "There is he waving his hand and Todd is with him. And yes! Why of course it's Rutter! See him clear that cart! Not a man in this country can drive that way but him."

Round they come-the colonel straight as a whip-whitey-brown overcoat, flowers in his button-hole-bell-crown hat, brown driving gloves-perfectly appointed, even if he is a trifle pale and half blind. More horn-a long joyous note now, as if they were heralding the peace of the world, the colonel bowing like a grand duke as he passes the assembled crowd-a gathering of the reins together, a sudden pull-up at Seymours', everybody on the front porchKate peeping over Harry's shoulder-and last and best of all, St. George's cheery voice ringing out:

"Where are you two sweethearts!" Not a weak note anywhere; regular fog-horn of a voice blown to help shipwrecked mariners.

"All aboard for Moorlands, you turtledoves-never mind your clothes, Kate-nor you either, Harry. Your father will send for them later. Up with you."

"All true, Harry," called back the colonel from the top of the coach (nobody alighted but the grooms-there wasn't time)"Your mother wouldn't wait another hour and sent me for you, and Teackle said St. George could go, and we bundled him up and brought him along and you are all going to stay a month. No, don't wait a

minute, Kate, I want to get home before dark. One of my men will be in with the carry-all and bring out your mammy and your clothes and whatever you want. Your father is away I hear, and so nobody will miss you. Get your heavy driving coat, my dear; I brought one of mine in for Harry-it will be cold before we get home. Matthew, your eyes are better than mine, get down and see what the devil is the matter with that horse. No, it's all right-the check-rein bothered him."

And so ended the day that had been so happily begun, and the night was no less joyful with the mother's arms about her beloved boy and Kate on a stool beside her and Talbot and St. George deep in certain vintages or perhaps certain vintages deep in Talbot and St. George-especially that particular and peculiar old Madeira of 1800, which his friend Mr. Jefferson had sent him from Monticello, and which was never served except to some such distinguished guest as his highly esteemed and well-beloved friend of many years, St. George Wilmot Temple of Kennedy Square.

XXIX

It would be delightful to describe the happy days at Moorlands during St. George's convalescence, when the love-life of Harry and Kate was one long, uninterrupted, joyous dream. When mother, father, and son were again united—what a meeting that was when she got her arms around her son's neck and held him close and wept her heart out in thankfulness!— and the life of the old-time past was revived —a life softened and made restful and kept glad by the lessons all had learned. And it would be more delightful still to carry the record of these charming hours far into the summer had not St. George, eager to be under his own roof, declared he could stay no longer.

Not that his welcome had grown less warm. He and his host had long since unravelled all their difficulties, the last knot having been cut the afternoon the colonel, urged on by Harry's mother, his disappointment over his son's coldness set at rest by her pleadings, drove into Kennedy Square for Harry in his coach and swept the whole party, including St. George, out to Moorlands.

Various unrelated causes had brought about this much-to-be-desired result, the most important being the news of the bank's revival, which Harry, in his mad haste to overtake Kate, had forgotten to tell his uncle, and which St. George learned half an hour later from Pawson, together with a full account of what the colonel had done to bring about the happy result―a bit of information which so affected Temple that, when the coach with the colonel on the box had whirled up, he, weak as he was, had struggled to the front door, both hands held out, in welcome.

"Talbot-old fellow," he said with a quaver in his voice, "I have misunderstood you and I beg your pardon. You've behaved like a man, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart!"

At which the stern old aristocrat had replied, as he took St. George's two hands in his: "Let us forget all about it, St. George. I made a damned fool of myself. We all get too cocky sometimes."

Then there had followed-the colonel listening with bated breath-St. George's account of Kate's confession and Harry's sudden exit, Rutter's face brightening as it had not done for years when he learned that Harry had not yet returned from the Seymours', the day's joy being capped by the arrival of Dr. Teackle, who had given his permission with an "All right-the afternoon is fine and the air will do Mr. Temple a world of good," and so St. George was bundled up and the reader knows the rest.

Later on-at Moorlands of course-the colonel, whose eyes were getting better by the day and Gorsuch whose face was now one long continuous smile, got to work, and had a heart-to-heart-or rather a pocket-to-pocket talk-which was quite different in those days from what it would be now-after which both Kate and Harry threw to the winds all thoughts of Rio and the country contiguous thereto, and determined instead to settle down at Moorlands. And then a great big iron door sunk in a brick vault was swung wide and certain leather-bound books were brought out-and particularly a sum of money, which Harry duly handed over to Pawson the next time he went to town-(twice a week now)—and which, when recounted, balanced to a cent the total of the bills which Pawson had paid three years before,

with interest added, and which list the attorney still kept in his private drawer with certain other valuable papers tied with red tape, marked "St. G. W. T." And still later on-within a week-there had come the news of the final settlement of the long-disputed lawsuit, with St. George as principal residuary legatee-and so the dear gentleman was once more placed upon his financial legs: the only way he could have been placed upon them or would have been placed upon them-a fact very well known to every one who had tried to help him, his philosophy being that one dollar borrowed is two dollars owed-the difference being a man's self-respect.

And it is truly marvellous what this change in his fortunes did for him. His slack body rounded out; his sunken cheeks plumped up until every crease and crack were gone, his color regained its freshness, his eyes their brilliancy; his legs took on their old-time spring and lightness-and a wonderful pair of stand-bys, or stand-ups, or stand-arounds they were as legs go that is legs of a man of fifty-five.

And they were never idle: there was no sitting cross-legged in a chair for St.George: he was not constructed along those lines. Not many days had passed before he had them across Spitfire's mate; had ridden to hounds; danced a minuet with Harry and Kate; walked half-way to Kennedy Square and back-they thought he was going to walk all the way and headed him off just in time; and best of all—(and this is worthy of special mention)—had been slipped into the lower section of some new clothes-and these his own, although he had not yet paid for them-the colonel having liquidated their cost. These trousers, it is just as well to state, had arrived months before with a suit of Rutter's from Poole, and the colonel had forwarded a draft for the whole amount without examining the contents, until Alec had called his attention to the absurd brevity of the legs-and the ridiculous spread of the seat. After the scene in the Temple Mansion, my Lord of Moorlands had been afraid to send them in to St. George, and they had lain ever since on top of his wardrobe, with Alec as chief of the Moth Department. St. George, on his arrival, found them folded carefully and placed on a chair-Todd chief valet. Whereupon there had been a good-natured

row when our man of fashion appeared at breakfast rigged out in all his finery, everybody clapping their hands and saying how handsome he looked-St. George in reply denouncing Talbot as a brigand of a Brummel who had stolen his clothes, tried to wear them, and then when out of fashion had thrown them back on his hands.

All these, and a thousand other delightful things, it would, I say, be eminently worth while to dilate upon-(including a series of whoops and hand-springs which Todd threw against the rear wall of the big kitchen five seconds after Alec had told him of the discomfiture of "dat redhaided gemman," and of Marse Harry's happiness)—were it not that certain mysterious happenings are taking place inside and out of the Temple house in Kennedy Square-happenings exciting universal comment, and of such transcendent importance that the Scribe, against his willfor the present one is rather short-is compelled to reserve them for a special chapter all to themselves.

XXX

FOR Some time back, be it said, various strollers unfamiliar with the neighbors, or the neighborhood of Kennedy Square, poor benighted folk who knew nothing of the events set down in the preceding chapters had nodded knowingly or shaken their pates deprecatingly over the passing of "another old landmark." Some of these had remarked that the cause could be found in the fact that Lawyer Temple had run through what little money his father and grandmother had left him; additional wise-acres were of the opinion that some out-of-town folks had bought the place and were trying to prop it up so it wouldn't tumble into the street, while one, more facetious than the others, had claimed that it was no wonder it was falling down since the only new thing Temple had put upon it was a heavy mortgage.

The immediate neighbors, however— the friends of the house, had smiled and passed on. They had no such forebodings. On the contrary nothing so diverting-nothing so enchanting-had happened about Kennedy Square in years. In fact, when one of the humorists began speaking about it, every listener heard the story in