er.
"And what's more, he's a fine lad, a lovable lad, and a very fine
gentleman into the bargain, as you will be the first to admit when--"
but here Bentley broke off to turn and look at me mighty solemn all at
once: "Dick," says he, "do you think young Raikes is so great a
swordsman as they say?"

"Yes," I answered bitterly, "and that's why I grieve for our poor Jack."

"Jack?" says Bentley, staring like a fool, "Jack--ah yes, to be
sure--to be sure."

"I tell you, Bentley," I continued, impressively, "so sure as he crosses
swords with the fellow, Jack is a dead man."

"Humph!" says Bentley, after we had gone some little way in silence.
"Man Dick, I'm greatly minded to tell thee a matter."

"Well?" I enquired, listlessly.

"But on second thoughts, I won't, Dick," says he, "for 'silence is
golden,' as the saying is!"

"Why then," says I, "go you on to the house; I'm minded to walk in the
rose-garden awhile," for I had caught the flutter of Pen's cloak at the
end of one of the walks.

"Walk?" repeated Bentley, staring. "Rose-garden? But Jack will be for a
game of picquet--"

"I'll be with you anon," says I, turning away.

"Hum!" says Bentley, scratching his chin, and presently sets off towards
the house, whistling lustily.

I found Penelope in the yew-walk, leaning against the statue of a satyr.
And looking from the grotesque features above to the lovely face below,
I suddenly found my old heart a-thumping strangely--for beside this very
statue, in almost the same attitude, her mother had once stood long ago
to listen to the tale of my hopeless love. For a moment it almost seemed
that the years had rolled backward, it almost seemed that the thin grey
hair beneath my wig might be black once more, my step light and elastic
with youth. Instinctively, I reached out my hands and took a swift step
across the grass, then, all at once she looked up, and seeing me,
smiled.

My hands dropped.

"Penelope," I said.

"Uncle Dick," says she, her smile fading, "why, what is it?"

"Naught, my dear," says I, trying to smile, "old men have strange
fancies at times--"

"Nay, but what was it?" she repeated, catching my hands in hers.

"Child," says I, "child, you are greatly like what your mother was
before you."

"Am I?" says she very low, looking at me with a new light in her eyes.
Then she leaned suddenly forward and kissed me.

"Why, Pen!" says I, all taken aback.

"I know," she nodded, "on Monday my hand, on