se you've not smoked since dinner. We
shan't mind if you care to."

"No, thanks."

There was silence again, except for the creaking of the rocking-chair;
then a low, clear whistle, singularly musical, was heard softly
rendering an old air from "Fra Diavolo." The creaking stopped.

"Is that you, George?" Fanny asked abruptly.

"Is that me what?"

"Whistling 'On Yonder Rock Reclining'?"

"It's I," said Isabel.

"Oh," Fanny said dryly.

"Does it disturb you?"

"Not at all. I had an idea George was depressed about something, and
merely wondered if he could be making such a cheerful sound." And Fanny
resumed her creaking.

"Is she right, George?" his mother asked quickly, leaning forward in
her chair to peer at him through the dusk. "You didn't eat a very hearty
dinner, but I thought it was probably because of the warm weather. Are
you troubled about anything?"

"No!" he said angrily.

"That's good. I thought we had such a nice day, didn't you?"

"I suppose so," he muttered, and, satisfied, she leaned back in her
chair; but "Fra Diavolo" was not revived. After a time she rose, went to
the steps, and stood for several minutes looking across the street. Then
her laughter was faintly heard.

"Are you laughing about something?" Fanny inquired.

"Pardon?" Isabel did not turn, but continued her observation of what had
interested her upon the opposite side of the street.

"I asked: Were you laughing at something?"

"Yes, I was!" And she laughed again. "It's that funny, fat old Mrs.
Johnson. She has a habit of sitting at her bedroom window with a pair of
opera-glasses."

"Really!"

"Really. You can see the window through the place that was left when we
had the dead walnut tree cut down. She looks up and down the street, but
mostly at father's and over here. Sometimes she forgets to put out the
light in her room, and there she is, spying away for all the world to
see!"

However, Fanny made no effort to observe this spectacle, but continued
her creaking. "I've always thought her a very good woman," she said
primly.

"So she is," Isabel agreed. "She's a good, friendly old thing, a little
too intimate in her manner, sometimes, and if her poor old opera-glasses
afford her the quiet happiness of knowing what sort of young man our new
cook is walking out with, I'm the last to begrudge it to her! Don't you
want to come and look at her, George?"

"What? I beg your pardon. I hadn't noticed what you were talking