in this world."

The subject was dropped, but nevertheless it left its aftermath.
Easy-going Scotty did not often say an unpleasant thing, and for that
very reason Florence knew that when he did it had an especial
significance.

"By the way," he observed after a moment, "we ought to celebrate to-day
in some manner. I rather expected to find a band at the station to
welcome me yesterday upon my return, but I didn't, and I fear there's
been no public demonstration arranged. What do you say to our packing up
our dinner, taking the elevated, and spending the day in the country?
What say you, Mollie?"

His wife looked at her daughter helplessly. "Just as Florence says. I'm
willing," she replied.

"What speaks the oracle?" smiled Scotty. "Shall we or shall we not?
Personally, I feel a desire for cooling springs, to step on a good-sized
plat of green without having a watchful bluecoat loom in the distance."

Florence fingered the linen of the tablecloth with genuine discomfort.
"You two can go. I'll help you get ready," she ventured at last. "I'm
sorry, but I promised Mr. Sidwell last night I'd visit the art gallery
with him this afternoon. He says they've some new canvases hung lately,
one of them by a particular friend of his. He's such a student of art,
and I know so little about it that I hate to miss going."

Again the smile left Scotty's eyes. "Can't you write a note explaining,
and postpone the visit until some other time?" It took quite an effort
for this undemonstrative Englishman to make the request.

The girl glanced out the window with a look her father understood very
well. "I hardly think so," she said. "He's going away for the Summer
soon, and his time is limited."

Scotty said no more, and soon after he left the table and went into the
library. Florence sat for a moment abstractedly; then with her old
impulsive manner she followed him.

"Daddy," the girl's arms clasped around his neck, her cheek pressed
against his, "I'm awful sorry I can't go with you to-day. I'd like to,
really."

But for one of the very few times that Florence could remember her
father did not respond. Instead, he removed her arms rather coldly.

"Oh, that's all right," he said; "I hope you'll have a good time." And
picking up the morning paper he lit a cigar and moved toward the shady
veranda.

Watching him, the girl had a desire to follow, to prevent his leaving
her in that way. But she hesitated and the moment passed.

Ye