turkeys on the lawn. When these topics were worn threadbare she bethought
herself of the beauty of the autumn woods, and lamented the ruined garden
with its last sad flowers.

The Major listened gloomily, putting in a word now and then, and keeping
his weak red eyes upon his plate. There was a heavy cloud on his brow, and
the flush that Betty had learned to dread was in his face. Once when she
spoke carelessly of Dan, he threw out an angry gesture and inquired if she
"found Mrs. Lightfoot easier to-night?"

"Oh, I think so," replied the girl, and then, as they rose from the table,
she slipped her hand through his arm and went with him into the library.

"Shall I sit with you this evening?" she asked timidly. "I'd be so glad to
read to you, if you would let me."

He shook his head, patted her affectionately upon the shoulder, and smiled
down into her upraised face. "No, no, my dear, I've a little work to do,"
he replied kindly. "There are a few papers I want to look over, so run up
to Molly and tell her I sent my sunshine to her."

He stooped and kissed her cheek; and Betty, with a troubled heart, went
slowly up to Mrs. Lightfoot's chamber.

The Major sat down at his writing table, and spread his papers out before
him. Then he raised the wick of his lamp, and with his pen in his hand,
resolutely set himself to his task. When Cupid came in with the decanter of
Burgundy, he filled a glass and held it absently against the light, but he
did not drink it, and in a moment he put it down with so tremulous a hand
that the wine spilled upon the floor.

"I've a touch of the gout, Cupid," he said testily. "A touch of the gout
that's been hanging over me for a month or more."

"Huccome you ain' fit hit, Ole Marster?"

"Oh, I've been fighting it tooth and nail," answered the old gentleman,
"but there are some things that always get the better of you in the end,
Cupid, and the gout's one of them."

"En rheumaticks hit's anurr," added Cupid, rubbing his knee.

He rolled a fresh log upon the andirons and went out, while the Major
returned, frowning, to his work.

He was still at his writing table, when he heard the sound of a horse
trotting in the drive, and an instant afterwards the quick fall of the old
brass knocker. The flush deepened in his face, and with a look at once
angry and appealing, he half rose from his chair. As he waited the outside
bars were withdrawn, there followed a few short steps across the hall, and