a little? My father is most
impatient to welcome his new daughter, and he will only excite himself
if we keep him waiting."

"Go with him, Greta, dear," returned Olivia; "Mr. Alwyn will bring you
back to us." And then Greta rose at once, though she looked a little
shy.

As Olivia stood at the door watching them as they crossed the road,
Marcus came up Harbut Street.

"Where are those two going?" he asked, curiously. "I thought Miss
Williams was to spend the evening with us." Then Olivia linked her arm
in his and drew him into the passage.

"Oh, do come in, Marcus," she said, breathlessly. "I cannot talk at
the street-door, and I have such a lot to tell you." Then Marcus put
down his hat and drew off his gloves with exasperating slowness.

"We have been married nearly three years," he said, flecking the dust
off his coat-collar, "but I never remember the day when, as you so
elegantly express it, you had not a 'lot to tell me.'"

"Yes, but something has really happened," she returned, ignoring this
provoking speech.

"Oh, indeed," was the cool answer; "so they have settled it at last,
have they? Well, I have changed my opinion lately. Gaythorne may not
be quite up to the mark, but he will make a good husband. I suppose he
is taking her across for the parental blessing?" And then Olivia
admitted that this was the case.

"I am so glad that you really do not mind," she said, in a relieved
tone; "but I fancied you would not approve. You almost said as much
one day."

"Oh, even great intellects change their opinions sometimes," returned
Marcus, dryly; "Sir Robert Peel and Gladstone, for example. And then
most people know their own business best. Perhaps if you were to
cross-examine me severely I might own that Alwyn Gaythorne is not the
man I should have selected for your interesting friend, but as she has
chosen him, she is evidently of another opinion, and this is one thing
in his favour, he is thoroughly in love with her, and really, take him
all in all, he is not a bad fellow," and Olivia, who understood her
husband perfectly, was quite content with this opinion.

When Marcus went upstairs to wash his hands, whistling the air of "My
old Dutch," she knew he was quite as much excited as she was.

When Greta came back she looked a little flushed and agitated, and, at
a sign from Alwyn, Olivia took her upstairs.

"What is it, dear?" she said, gently, as Greta shed a few tears; "was
not Mr. Gaythor