in his
ears, and the sight before him of Mrs. Dillon's lean shoulder-blades
travelling painfully up and down with the sweep of the mop.

"I don't suppose that cost Truscomb ten dollars," he said to himself, as
the lift lowered him to the factory door; but another voice argued that
he had no right to accuse Disbrow of acting as his brother-in-law's
agent, when the gift to Mrs. Dillon might have been prompted by his own
kindness of heart.

"And what prompted the lie about her husband? Well, perhaps he's an
incurable optimist," he summed up, springing into the Hanaford car.

By the time he reached Mrs. Westmore's door his wrath had subsided, and
he felt that he had himself well in hand. He had taken unusual pains
with his appearance that morning--or rather his mother, learning of the
errand on which Truscomb had sent him, had laid out his
carefully-brushed Sunday clothes, and adjusted his tie with skilful
fingers. "You'd really be handsome, Johnny, if you were only a little
vainer," she said, pushing him away to survey the result; and when he
stared at her, repeating: "I never heard that vanity made a man
better-looking," she responded gaily: "Oh, up to a certain point,
because it teaches him how to use what he's got. So remember," she
charged him, as he smiled and took up his hat, "that you're going to see
a pretty young woman, and that you're not a hundred years old yourself."

"I'll try to," he answered, humouring her, "but as I've been forbidden
to ask for her, I am afraid your efforts will be wasted."

The servant to whom he gave his message showed him into the library,
with a request that he should wait; and there, to his surprise, he
found, not the white-moustached gentleman whom he had guessed the night
before to be Mr. Langhope, but a young lady in deep black, who turned on
him a look of not unfriendly enquiry.

It was not Bessy's habit to anticipate the clock; but her distaste for
her surroundings, and the impatience to have done with the tedious
duties awaiting her, had sent her downstairs before the rest of the
party. Her life had been so free from tiresome obligations that she had
but a small stock of patience to meet them with; and already, after a
night at Hanaford, she was pining to get back to the comforts of her own
country-house, the soft rut of her daily habits, the funny chatter of
her little girl, the long stride of her Irish hunter across the
Hempstead plains--to everything, in short, that made