his reminds me of a letter I had to-day from one of your
old friends, asking when you were to be at home."

The French window closed on the two older people. Juliet, left sitting on
the arm of her father's chair, found Anthony behind her.

"Do you want to go on a voyage to the Philippines?" he was asking over her
shoulder.

"I'm not sure just what I do want," she answered rather breathlessly.

"The tea-kettle would rust while you were gone."

He got no reply.

"The dust would grow inches deep on the dining-table we polished so
carefully."

Juliet rose and walked slowly to the edge of the steps. Anthony followed.
"Let's go and walk on the terrace," he proposed, and they ran down to the
smooth sward below. It was a warm night, with no dew, and the short-shaven
grass was dry. All the stars were out. Anthony walked beside the figure in
white, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Do white ruffled curtains like those at our windows ever grow musty from
being shut up?" he insinuated gently.

"I don't know."

"Will you write from every port you touch at? It will take a good many
letters to satisfy me."

"I suppose so."

"Suppose what? That you will write?"

Juliet stood still. "You're the greatest wheedler I ever saw," she said.

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's not meant for one. What am I to do when I'm----"

"Married to me?--I don't know, poor child. I can only pity you. What do
you think the prospect is for me, never to be able to get the smallest
concession from you except by every art of coaxing? Yet--if I can get this
thing I want, by any means--I warn you I shall not give up until I've seen
you sail."

"You'll not see me sail."

He wheeled upon her. He had her hand in his grasp. "And if you don't go?"

"I'll stay."

"With me?"

She laughed irresistibly. "How could I stay without you?"

"Will you marry me before your father goes?"

"Oh, Tony, Tony----"

"We can't be married without his blessing, can we?"

"No--dear father."

"Then----"

"I'll tell you to-morrow," said she.

IX.--A BISHOP AND A HAY-WAGON

Juliet Marcy's prospective maid-of-honour found Anthony Robeson's best man
at her elbow the moment she entered the waiting-room of the big railway
station. Now, although she greeted him with a charming little conscious
look, there was nothing either new or singular about the quiet rush he had
made across the waiting-room the instant he saw her. The rest of the party
of twenty