ith some reserve the insinuating glances of his
pretty companion. "We shall do as you suggest. Who are the Pegalls, may
I ask?"

"My friends, with whom I stopped on Christmas Eve," rejoined Mrs. Vrain.
"A real good, old, dull English family, as heavy as their own plum
puddings. Mrs. Pegall's a widow like myself, and I daresay she buys her
frocks in the Bayswater stores. She has two daughters who look like
barmaids, and ought to be, only they ain't smart enough. We had a real
Sunday at home on Christmas Eve, Mr. Denzil. Whist and weak tea at
eight, negus and prayers and bed at ten. Poppa wanted to teach them
poker, and they kicked like mad at the very idea; but that was when he
visited them before, I guess."

"Not the kind of family likely to suit you, I should think," said
Lucian, regarding the little free-lance with a puzzled air.

"I guess not. Lead's a feather to them for weight. But it's a good thing
to have respectable friends, especially in this slow coach of an old
country, where you size everybody up by the company they keep."

"Ah!" said Lucian pointedly and--it must be confessed--rather rudely,
"so you have found the necessity of having respectable friends, however
dull?"

"That's a fact," acknowledged Mrs. Vrain candidly. "I've had a queer
sort of life with poppa--ups and downs, and flyings over the moon, I
guess."

"You are not American?" said Denzil suddenly.

"Sakes! How do you figure that out?"

"Because you are too pronouncedly Amurrican to be American."

"That's an epigram with some truth in it," replied Lydia coolly. "Oh,
I'm as much a U. S. A. article as anything else. We hung out our shingle
in Wyoming, Wis., for a considerable time, and a girl who tickets
herself Yankee this side flies high. But I guess I'm not going to give
you my history," concluded Mrs. Vrain drily. "I'm not a Popey nor you a
confessor."

"H'm! You've been in the South Seas, I see."

"There's no telling. How do you know?"

"The natives there use the word Popey to designate a Roman Catholic."

"You are as smart as they make 'em, Mr. Denzil. There's no flies about
you; but I'm not going to give myself away. Ask poppa, if you want
information. He's that simple he'll tell you all."

"Well, Mrs. Vrain, keep your own secret; it is not the one I wish to
discover. By the way, you say your father was at Camden Hill on
Christmas Eve?"

"I didn't say so, but he was," answered Lydia quietly. "He was not very
well--pop can