of sheer hopefulness, to warn people of a dying relation’s peril, and he at once decided to go to the Lauderdales himself and tell them what he thought of the case.

He drove down to Clinton Place, and, as luck would have it, he met Katharine just coming out of the house alone. He explained the matter in half a dozen words, put her into his own carriage and sent her to Robert Lauderdale at once, telling the coachman to come back for him. Then he went in and saw Mrs. Lauderdale, and told her all that was occurring. She at once asked him so many questions and required such clear answers, that he forgot to say anything about his meeting with Katharine on the doorstep. As has been seen, he was no sooner gone than Mrs. Lauderdale went down town to speak to her husband. Before Doctor Routh had left Clinton Place, Katharine was sitting at old Robert Lauderdale’s bedside.

Many people said that Katharine had never been so beautiful as she was that year. It is possible that as her mother’s loveliness began to fade, her own suffered less from the comparison, for her mother had been supreme in her way. But Katharine was a great contrast to her. Katharine had her father’s regular features, and his natural, healthy pallor, and her eyes were grey like his. But there the resemblance ceased. Where her father’s face was hard as a medal engraved in steel, hers was soft and delicate as moulded moonlight. Instead of his even, steel-trap mouth, she had lips of that indescribable hue which is only found with dark complexions—not rosy red, nor exactly salmon-pink, and yet with something of the colouring of both, and a tone of its own besides. Her black hair made no ringlets on her forehead, and she did not torture it against its nature. It separated in broad, natural waves, and she wore it as it chose to grow. She had broad, black eyebrows. They make even a meek face look strong, and in strong faces they give a stronger power of expression, and under certain conditions can lend both tenderness and pathos to the eyes they overshadow.

In figure, Katharine was tall and strong, well-grown, neither slight nor heavy. In this, too, she was like her father, who had been an athlete in his day, and still, at fifty years, was a splendid specimen of manhood, though he was growing thinner and smaller than he had been. His daughter moved like him, deliberately, with that grace which is the result of good proportion and easily applied strength, direct and unconscious of effort. Katharine may, perhaps, have been aware of her advantages in this respect. At all events, she dressed so simply that the colour and material of what she wore never attracted a stranger’s eye so soon as her figure and presence. Then he might discover that her frock was of plain grey homespun, exceedingly well made, indeed, but quite without superfluity in the way of ornament.

Long-limbed, easy and graceful as a thoroughbred, she entered the white room and stooped down to kiss the old man’s pale forehead. His sunken blue eyes looked up at her as his hand sought hers, and she was shocked at the change in his appearance. She sat down, still holding his hand, and leaned back, looking at him.

“You’ve been very ill, uncle Robert,” she said, softly. “I’m so glad you’re better.”

“Did Routh tell you I was better?” asked the old man, and his gruff, hoarse voice startled Katharine a little.

“Not exactly getting well—but well enough to see people,” she answered. “That’s a good deal, you know.”

“I should want to see you, even if I were dying,” said Robert Lauderdale, pressing her hand with his great fingers.

“Thank you, uncle dear! A lover couldn’t say it more prettily.” She smiled and returned the pressure.

“Jack Ralston could—for your ears, my dear.”

“Ah—Jack—perhaps!”

A very gentle shadow seemed to descend upon Katharine’s face, veiling her heart’s thoughts and hiding her real expression, though she did not turn her eyes away from the old man. A short silence followed.

“I hear that Jack is doing very well,” he said, at last. “Jack’s a good fellow at heart, Katharine. I think he’s forgiven me for what happened last winter. I was angry, you know—and he looked very wild.”

“He’s forgotten all about it, I’m sure. He never speaks of it now. I think he only mentioned it once after it happened, when he explained everything to me. Don’t imagine that he bears you any malice. Besides—after all you’ve done—”

“I’ve done nothing for him, because he won’t let me,” growled Robert Lauderdale, and a discontented look came into his face. “But I’m glad he’s doing well—I’m very glad.”

“It’s slow, of course,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “It will be long before he can hope to be a partner.”

“Not so long as you think, child. I’ve been very ill, and I am very ill. I may be dead to-morrow.”

“Don’t talk like that! So may I, or anybody—by an accident in the street.”

“No, no! I’m in earnest. Not that I care much, I think. It’s time to be going, and I’ve had my share—and the share of many others, I’m afraid. Never mind. Never mind—we won’t talk of it any more. You’re so young. It makes you sad.”

Again the two exchanged a little pressure of hands, and there was silence.

“It will be different when the money is divided,” said old Lauderdale, at last. “You’ll have to acknowledge your marriage then.”

Katharine started slightly. She had her back to the windows, but the whiteness of everything in the room threw reflected light into her face, and the blush that very rarely came spread all over it in an instant.

Only four living persons knew that she had been secretly married to John Ralston during the winter; namely, John and herself, the clergyman who had married them, and Robert Lauderdale. At that time she had with great difficulty persuaded John to go through the ceremony, hoping thereby to force her uncle into finding her husband some congenial occupation in the West. Half an hour after taking the decisive step, she had come to Robert Lauderdale with her story, and he had demonstrated to her that John’s only path to success lay through the office of a banker or a lawyer, and John had then returned to Beman Brothers, after refusing to accept a large sum of money, with which old Lauderdale had proposed to make him independent. He had not been willing to give his uncle the smallest chance of thinking that he had married Katharine as a begging speculator, nor had the old gentleman succeeded in making him change his mind since then. Nor had he referred to the marriage when speaking with Katharine, except on one or two occasions, when it had seemed absolutely necessary to do so. And now that he had spoken of it, he saw the burning blush and did not understand it. Women had entered little into his long life. He fancied that he had hurt her, and was very sorry. The great hand closed slowly, as though with an effort, upon the white young fingers.

“I didn’t mean to pain you, my dear; forgive me,” he said, simply.

Katharine looked at him with a little surprise, and the blush instantly disappeared. Then she laughed softly and bent forward with a quick movement.

“You didn’t, uncle dear! You didn’t pain me in the least. It’s only—sometimes I don’t quite realize that I’m Jack’s wife. When I do—like that, just now—it makes me happy. That’s all.”

Robert Lauderdale looked at her, tried to understand, failed, and nodded his big head kindly but vacantly.

“Well—I’m glad,” he said. “But you see, my dear child, when John’s a rich man, you can acknowledge your marriage, and have a house of your own. You really must, and of course you will. John can’t refuse to take his share. We never quarrelled, that I know of, but that once, last