Wednesday my cheek, and on
Sunday my lips--"

"And to-day is Friday!"

"What if it is, sir," says she, tossing her head, "I made that rule
simply for peace and quietness sake; you and Uncle Bentley were forever
pestering me to death, you know you were."

"Were we?" says I, chuckling, "well, I'm one ahead of him to-day,
anyhow, Pen."

Talking thus, we came to the rose-garden (Pen's special care) and here
we must needs fall a-sorrowing over the dead flowers.

"And yet," says Pen, pausing beside a bush whereon hung a few faded
blooms, "all will be as sweet, and fresh, and glorious again next year."

"Yes," I answered, heavily, "next year." And I sighed again, bethinking
me of the changes this next year must bring to all of us.

"Tell me, Uncle Dick," says she, suddenly, laying a hand on either of my
shoulders, "how did father hurt his foot?"

"Why, to be sure," says I, readily, "'twas an accident. You must know
'twas as we came down the steps at 'The Chequers', Pen; talking and
laughing, d'ye see, he tripped and fell--caught his spur, I fancy."

"But he wore no spurs, Uncle Dick," says she, mighty demure.

"Oh--why--didn't he so, Pen?" says I, a little hipped. "Well, then
he--er--just--tripped, you know--fell, you understand."

"On the steps, Uncle Dick?"

"Aye, on the steps," I nodded.

"Prithee did he fall up the steps or down the steps, Uncle Dick?"

"Down, Pen, down; he simply tripped down the steps and--and there you
have it."

"But prithee Uncle Dick--"

"Nay, nay," says I, "the game waits for me, Pen--I must go."

But at this moment, as luck would have it, Bentley reappeared, nor was I
ever more glad to see him.

"Aha, man Dick," cries he, wagging his finger at me. "Walk in the
rose-garden, was it? Oh, for shame, to so abuse my confidence--Dick, I
blush for thee; and Jack's a roaring for thee, and the game waits for
thee; in a word--begone! And to-day, Pen," says he, as I turned away,
"to-day is Friday!" and he stooped and kissed her pretty cheek.

I had reached the terrace when I stopped all at once and, moved by a
sudden thought, I turned about and hurriedly retraced my steps. They
were screened from sight by one of the great yew hedges, but as I
approached I could hear Bentley's voice:

"His horse?" says Bentley.

"Yes," says Pen, "and Saladin's such a quiet old horse as a rule!"

"But what's his horse got to do with it?" says Bentley.

"Why, you were there, Uncle Bentley. Saladin ji