good story, is it not?'

'Very good indeed, but I was only afraid you were not quite well,
Captain Burnett; you look so queer, somehow, and your hand is shaking.'

'I have sat too long. I think I must walk off my stiffness. Don't wait
lunch for me, Kester. I may go to my club.'

And then he took down his hat, and went out in the streets, with Booty
ambling along at his heels.

But he did not go far; he strolled into the Park and sat down on a
bench. The air refreshed him, and the miserable numb feelings left him,
and he had power to think.

But there were deep lines in his face as he sat there, and a great
sadness in his eyes, and just before he rose to go home a few words
escaped him. 'Oh, my darling, what a mistake, when you belong to me!
Will you ever find it out for yourself? Will you ever recognise that it
is a mistake?' And then he set his teeth hard, like a man who knows his
strength and refuses to be beaten.

And the next morning, as they sat at breakfast, Michael looked up from
his newspaper and asked Kester if he had heard the Rutherford news.

'Perhaps your mother or Mollie has written to you?' he observed, as he
carelessly scanned the columns.

Kester looked up a little anxiously.

'No one has told me anything,' he said, rather nervously. 'I hope it is
not bad news.'

'Most people would call it good news. Your brother and Miss Ross are
engaged. Well'--as Kester jumped from his seat flushing scarlet--'aren't
you delighted? I think you ought to write a pretty note to Miss Ross to
go with my letter.'

'Have you written to her? Will you give her a message from me? I would
rather write to Cyril. I don't take it in, somehow; you are quite sure
it is true, Captain Burnett? Of course, I am glad that Cyril should be
happy, but I always thought----'

And here Kester stammered and got confused; but Michael did not help
him. He took up his paper again, and left him to finish his breakfast in
silence, and after that he remarked that he was going down to his club.

Kester curled himself up on the window-seat as soon as he was left
alone, and fell into a brown study. Somehow he could not make it out at
all. He was sharp-witted by nature, and years of suffering and forced
inaction had made him more thoughtful than most boys of his age. He had
long ago grasped the idea that his idolised hero was not happy, and
during their stay in Scotland some dim surmise of the truth had occurred
to him.

'Dear old Cyril!