It was not the nature of Mr. Philip Meadowes (as may have been gathered from his talk) to be reticent upon any subject. He had the acumen, however, which most talkative persons lack, to choose his listeners carefully; but with those whom he trusted Phil had absolutely no reserves. Chief among his confidants was Peter, the grave-faced elderly man-servant who had cuffed his ears in childhood, and now had discreetly forgotten the fact. This evening, as Peter brought in his young master’s wine, Phil, lying back in a chair, the book he had been reading thrown carelessly on the floor, addressed him quite impatiently. ‘Why, where have you been all afternoon, Peter?’ he said.—‘Now whom do you think I met to-day, by all that is curious?’ Peter laid down the tray he carried, picked up the book from the floor, smoothed its ruffled pages, and made a feint of guessing. ‘Mayhap the parson, sir?’ he said. ‘No, no, stupid; more interesting by far!’ ‘Mayhap the parson’s daughter, sir?’ ‘Wrong again; some one a deuced deal prettier than the parson’s daughter. But there, you can never guess—who but Carrie Shepley that I used to play with long ago in town, in the days when you were courting her maid Patty?’ Phil expected Peter to laugh at this resurrection of his former flirtations; but instead of laughing he stepped forward and laid his hand suddenly on his young master’s arm. ‘For the love of Heaven, sir, do you have naught to do with Miss Carrie Shepley!’ he said. Phil was surprised beyond measure to see the decorous Peter so startled out of his usual behaviour. ‘Why, Peter, what the dickens is the matter with you?’ he said. ‘This, sir, that there will be trouble betwixt you and the master if so be you takes up with Miss Carrie Shepley. I know not the rights nor the wrongs of the story, but this I knows, that there was a mighty quarrel once betwixt the master and Miss Carrie’s father, Dr. Shepley of Jermyn Street as is.’ ‘Oh—ho!’ whistled Phil. ‘And what did the gentlemen fall out upon, Peter?’ ‘On a woman, sir,’ said Peter, fidgeting a little uneasily. ‘And who was the woman?’ ‘By the name of Anne Champion, as I gathered, sir. I overheard their quarrel, sir, through the folding-doors betwixt the rooms in St. James’ Square, sir.’ ‘So that was why you and Patty were so particular that we met outside, and altogether—eh, Peter?’ ‘The same, sir.’ ‘Ah, Peter, I have hope for you yet! Sometimes I think you scarce human, you are so dutiful and faithful, but you stooped to some deceit, I’m glad to hear, once, all along of Patty!’ Peter smiled his demure smile. ‘’Twas as you say, sir,—all along of Patty,’ he assented. Phil reverted then to the quarrel. ‘Anne Champion, Anne Champion,’ he repeated. ‘And who was Anne Champion, think you, Peter?’ Peter came up to the fireplace, re-arranged the ornaments on the mantel-shelf, blew away a speck of imaginary dust from the gilt top of the clock, and then, speaking low, he said at last—