early, and hear little Singleton's piping voice. Singleton,
Knowles, and Leonard--the inseparable trio, they called them."

Sir Peter paused.

"As I said, the house was gay then. The Oglebay Prize was the result of
just such a dinner. Robert suggested it. Thorburg was one of the
trustees until he died; it has helped many a lad through his days in the
Latin Quarter. I have had some fine letters from those lads. One or two
of them have turned out really good work; good enough to have satisfied
Robert that the prize was worth while. Yes,--the Oglebay Prize is one of
the few things I look back upon with unalloyed pleasure; my bridge in
Natal is another."

Phyllis had moved her chair nearer to her uncle; while he spoke of her
father, he held her hand, on the arm of his chair. Now she spoke
quickly, with that pretty catch in her breath.

"Oh, Uncle Peter. Tell John about the Natal bridge. It is more
interesting and more exciting than the best novel you ever read."

"I should like to hear the story, sir," said John; it was pleasant to
see the sincerity of his interest.

"I will tell it to you some day, John," replied Sir Peter. He smiled.
"You will probably hear it a great many times. We all have our failings;
that story is mine. My cronies at the club tell me I lead up to it so
skillfully they cannot always stop me in time."

"Do tell it, Uncle Peter," said Phyllis.

Sir Peter thought for a moment.

"Some time I will, my dear," he said. "But not now. My mind is on
something else." He addressed his remarks to John again. "We were
talking about the days when there was overflowing life in my old house."

John stood with his back to the fire; his face was attentive, serious,
considering; but every line in it expressed determination.

"Those days ended when Robert married," Sir Peter continued. "I
quarreled with him and we parted. I never saw him again. And for ten
years my house was a mausoleum, haunted by memories; a torture-house of
vain regrets and useless longings."

His voice broke; he rose suddenly and walked to the window again. They
were silent until he returned to his chair. Phyllis seated herself on
the broad arm of it, and laid a caressing hand on his shoulder. He took
the hand and held it.

"Then came the news from the North--that my little girl was
motherless--and fatherless; and then came my little girl herself. She
was a very little girl then; a sad and lonely little girl; but"--Sir
Peter cleared hi