ars."

"Would ten not be safer?" suggested Andrew.

"We'll say seven, then. And of course you'll not withhold your consent
unreasonably? I'll trust you for that."

Andrew's attitude expressed to such perfection the confidence that might
be reposed in him that his father shed him a satisfied smile.

"And now," said he, "I wonder had you not better get me my will?--or we
might wait till to-morrow, and see how I'm feeling then."

If the junior partner had looked grave before, he looked funereal now.

"Your mind's clear now," he said. "I wouldn't put it off."

"Well, well," said Mr. Walkingshaw, "there are my keys on the
dressing-table: you know where to find the will."

Andrew went downstairs as solemnly as he had come up, and with the same
faint squeak.

CHAPTER VII

It never occurred to Frank and Jean to blame their father in any way for
electing so boisterous a day for his probable decease. Clearly they had
not so fine an instinct for respectability as their brother. Their
orthodoxy, compared with his, was built upon a sandy foundation: warm
hearts can never hope to sustain, in its impressive equipoise, the head
of an Andrew Walkingshaw. One might as well expect to find sap running
up the legs of his office stool.

That afternoon they instinctively drifted away from the others and sat
unhappily together. The gusty booming of the wind and the clash of
branches in the garden across the gale-scourged street tormented them
with fancies. It seemed as though a thousand riotous misfortunes were
buffeting their hearts.

"Rain!" cried Jean, with a little start and then a shiver.

"Isn't it beastly?" muttered Frank, his eyes on the carpet.

It came on with the sudden violence of a thunder-clap. In a moment the
tossing trees became gesticulating ghosts seen dimly through a veil of
glistening rods of water sharply diagonal--nearly horizontal; and even
through the musketry rattle on the window-panes they could hear the
pavement hiss beneath their deluge.

"Oh, Frank dear!" murmured Jean.

Giving way to illogical tenderness, the young soldier took her hand and
held it.

Of course, the least turn for hard argument would have reassured them.
The storm would blow over; they could find new lovers; their father,
even suppose he died, would receive suitable interment. Besides, they
would be the richer by his decease. But they remained foolishly moved.

"If anything does happen to father," said Jean sorrowfully