was to promise me a guinea I could say no more." Said
Aunt M'riar:--"It's been stood up against the wall ever since I
remembered it, and Mr. Bartlett's men assured me every care was took in
moving." A murmur of testimony to Mr. Bartlett's unvarying sobriety and
that of his men threatened to undermine the coherency of the
conversation, but the position was saved by Uncle Mo, who seemed less
infatuated than others about them. "Bartlett's ain't neither here or
there," said he. "What I look at's like this,--the leg's off, and we've
got to clap on a new un. Here's a young man'll see to that, and it'll
come to nineteen-and-sixpence. Only who's going to take care of the
letters and odd belongings of the old lady the whilst? That's a point to
consider. I'd rather not, myself, if you ask me. Not without she sends
the key, and that won't work, as I see it."

"I see," said Gwen. "You want to make Mrs. Picture a new table-leg, and
you can't do it without opening her desk. And you can't get the key from
her without saying why you want it. Isn't that it?" Universal assent.
"Very well, then! You get the lock opened, and I'll take everything out
with my own hands, and keep it safe for Mrs. Picture when she comes
back."

This proposal was welcomed with only one reservation. None but a real
live locksmith could open a lock, any more than one who is not born a
turncock can release the waters that are under the earth through an
unexplained hole in the road. It was, however, all within the province
of the young man in the trade, who had not vanished when the vision
appeared, in spite of those pressing appointments. He would go back to
the shop, and send, or bring, a properly qualified operative.

Pending which, an adjournment to the little parlour below, out of all
this mess, seemed desirable. Dave and Dolly were, of course, part of
this, but Mrs. Burr remained upstairs after answering inquiries about
her own health, and Mr. Alibone went away with the young man in search
of the locksmith.

Gwen had to account for her sudden appearance. "I'm sorry to have bad
news to tell you about my cousin, Miss Grahame," said she, so seriously
that both her grown-up hearers spoke under their breaths to begin
asking:--"She's not...?"--the rest being easily understood. Gwen
replied:--"Oh no, she's not _dead_. But she's in the doctor's hands."
Uncle Mo looked as though he thought this was nearly as bad, and Aunt
M'riar was so expressive in sympathy with