dered his senses less dense and earthy than usual, had
fancied he heard--or felt--some one enter the room. But at the
disclaimers of the rest, the notion vanished as such notions do. And the
warm flood of lamplight dispelled whatever of the psychic may have
brooded over the little group, bringing back their comfortable
materialism with a rush.

Wherefore, in his old home and among his own, Peter Grimm stood unseen;
that deprecatory half-smile on his square, ageless face.

The lighting of the lamps and Marta's noisy return to her own culinary
domain served as signals to break up the group about the desk. Mr.
Batholommey crossed the room and took his hat and coat from the rack,
passing within a hand's-breadth of the smiling, expectant Peter Grimm as
he did so.

"Well, Frederik," said the rector doubtfully by way of farewell, "I hope
that you'll follow your uncle's example at least as far as our parish
poor are concerned,--and keep on with _some_ of his charities."

Mrs. Batholommey, dutifully following her husband to the rack and
helping him on with his coat, turned to hear Frederik answer the
question she and the rector had so often and so anxiously discussed
during the past ten days. The heir did his best to settle their every
doubt in the fewest possible words.

"I may as well tell you now, as any time," said he, "that you needn't
look to me for any charitable graft at all. Your parish poor will have
to begin hustling for a living now. I don't intend to waste good money
in feeding what you Americans call 'a bunch of panhandlers.'"

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Batholommey, inexpressibly disappointed.

The smile died on Peter Grimm's face and the light of happy expectancy
was gone from his eyes.

"I am very sorry, Frederik," said the rector stiffly, "not only that
you can speak so of God's poor, but that you are not willing to continue
your uncle's splendid philanthropies. It--it doesn't seem possible that
he never told you how dear his charities were to him. Well," he broke
off with a shrug, and glancing at his watch, "I've got thirty minutes to
make a call before tea time."

"I must be toddling, too," said Colonel Lawton. "Are you going my way,
Mr. Batholommey? It's queer, Frederik," he added, bidding his host
good-bye, "it's queer--deucedly queer how things turn out. There's one
thing certain: the old gentleman should have made a will. But it's too
late now for us to grumble about that. By the way, what are you going t