egan
to interest him now.

"It's a pity he can't make a little more money," he added.

"But I don't need a large income to be happy, father."

"Eh?" said Mr. Walkingshaw.

This was going rather too fast; yet when he looked into her shining
eyes, he found it really very difficult to keep severe.

"Money is a very important thing, my dear," he replied.

"It's not nearly so important as love! Surely, father, it's far, far
better that two people should be very, very fond of each other than
have plenty of money! You do agree with that, don't you?"

It was at this moment that there came to the little advocate-for-love's
assistance a recollection of the sympathetic widow. In his mind's eye
Mr. Walkingshaw suddenly saw a vision of her black eyes vivaciously
beaming, and for some reason this enabled him to regard Jean's point of
view in a wholly new and original light.

"Well," said he, "I'm not sure that there isn't something in what you
say. I do believe you're right, my dear--in fact, I'm positive you're
right. The love for a fine woman--well, it's a first-rate
sensation--most refreshing."

"For a woman?" asked Jean, a little surprised. "But we were talking
about a man."

There was no mirror available, but Mr. Walkingshaw had a strong
suspicion that he must be blushing.

"For a man--of course," he said hastily. "I meant for a man. But in a
general way I think I may say that love's the thing for everybody! It's
the thing for you and me anyhow, eh, Jean?"

Jean felt as though she had scrubbed a lump of crystal and found it to
be a diamond. How was it she had never before discovered these depths of
affection and geniality below his awe-inspiring exterior? She had not
scrubbed hard enough!

"Yes, indeed!" said she. "Oh, I do understand you now. Father, I'm so
happy! And you won't think too hardly of Mr. Vernon, will you?"

"H'm," smiled her father. "That's a matter we might well take to
avizandum, I think."

For a daughter of a Writer to the Signet, Jean was woefully ignorant.
She did not know what avizandum meant in the least. But she felt sure it
was the name of one of the roads to happiness; and she hugged him again.

It was in the midst of this embrace that Mrs. Donaldson entered. She
had always esteemed the author of her own existence and her family's
prosperity, but she had never hugged him; nor had he shown any evidence
of desiring such an operation.

"Good gracious, Jean!" she exclaimed.

"We are a