er cheeks reddening, her eyes
dancing; poor soul! she was glad nowadays of the very crumbs of
affection from Sim MacTaggart's table.

"I know you are going to say 'Yes' for to-morrow night, Sim," said
she triumphant. "Oh, you are my own darling! For that I'll forgive you
everything."

"There's to be no more nonsense of this kind, Kate," said the
Chamberlain. "We have been fools--I see that quite plainly--and I'm not
going to carry it on any longer."

"That is very kind of you," said Mrs. Petullo, with the ring of metal
in her accent and her eyes on fire. "Do you feel a great deal of remorse
about it?"

"I do," said he, wondering what she was to be at next.

"Poor man! I was aye sure your conscience would be the death of you some
day. And it's to be the pretext for throwing over unhappy Kate Cameron,
is it?"

"Not Kate Cameron--her I loved--but Mrs. Petullo."

"Whom you only made-believe to? That is spoken like a true Highland
gentleman, Sim. I'm to be dismissed with just that amount of politeness
that will save my feelings. I thought you knew me better, Sim. I
thought you could make a more plausible excuse than that for the dirty
transaction when it had to be done, as they say it must be done some
time with all who are in our position. As sure as death I prefer the old
country style that's in the songs, where he laughs and rides away. But
I'm no fool, Sim; what about Miss Milk-and-Water? Has she been hearing
about me, I wonder, and finding fault with her new jo? The Lord help her
if she trusts him as I did!"

"I want you to give me a chance, Kate," said the Chamberlain
desperately. Petullo and the Count were still intently talking; the
tragedy was in the poor light of a guttering candle.

"A chance?" she repeated vaguely, her eyes in vacancy, a broken heart
shown in the corners of her mouth, the sudden aging of her countenance.

"That's it, Kate; you understand, don't you? A chance. I'm a boy no
longer. I want to be a better man--" The sentence trailed off, for
the Chamberlain could not but see himself in the most contemptible of
lights.

"A better man!" said she, her knitting and her hands drowned in her lap,
her countenance hollow and wan. "Lord keep me, a better man! And am I to
be any the better woman when my old lover is turned righteous? Have you
no' a thought at all for me when I'm to be left with him that's not my
actual husband, left without love, hope, or self-respect? God help poor
women! It's