ho has the right to advise you and
look after you. I should like to be your guardian, Juliet!"

She laughed merrily.

"Good!" she declared. "I like you so much better frivolous. Well, you
shall have your wish. You shall be my guardian for the evening. I have
one cutlet for dinner, and I am sure it will be spoilt. Will you come
and share it?"

She rose to her feet and stood looking down upon him. He was struck, for
the first time, by something different in her appearance. The smooth,
delicate girlishness of her young face was, as yet, untroubled. Her eyes
laughed frankly into his, and all the grace of natural childhood seemed
still to linger about her. And yet--there was a change! Understanding
was there; understanding, with sorrow in its wake. Aynesworth was
suddenly anxious. Had anything happened of which he was ignorant? He
rose up slowly. He was sure of himself now! Was he sure of her?

A DEED OF GIFT

Wingrave threw the paper aside with an impatient exclamation. A small
notice in an obscure corner had attracted his attention; the young man,
Richardson, had been fished out of the river half drowned, and in view
of his tearful and abject penitence, had been allowed to go his way by
a lenient magistrate. He had been ill, he pleaded, and disappointed. His
former employer, in an Islington emporium, gave him a good character,
and offered to take him back. So that was an end of Mr. Richardson, and
the romance of his days!

A worm like that to have brought him--the strong man, low! Wingrave
thought with sullen anger as he leaned back in his chair with
half-closed eyes. Here was an undignified hiatus, if not a finale, to
all his schemes, to the even tenor of his self-restrained, purposeful
life! The west wind was rippling through the orchards which bordered
the garden. The muffled roar of the Atlantic was in his ears, a strange
everlasting background to all the slighter summer sounds, the murmuring
of insects, the calling of birds, the melodious swish of the whirling
knives in the distant hayfield. Wingrave was alone with his thoughts,
and he hated them!

Even Mr. Pengarth was welcome, Mr. Pengarth very warm from his ride,
carrying his hat and a small black bag in his hand. As he drew nearer,
he became hotter and was obliged to rest his bag upon the path and mop
his forehead. He was more afraid of his client than of anything else in
the world.

"Good afternoon, Sir Wingrave," he said. "I trust that you are fe