Edward listened. There was much to awaken his keenest interest. He was devoted to his pursuit, theory and practice. But he was listening too, with all his inner consciousness, for a light footstep, and when Frances came quietly back with an amused look at the two, his eyes flashed her amusement back at her, as with much show of not disturbing them, she slipped into a chair before the fire. The professor was unconscious; he was in full swing and went on glibly. The young man's face was turned attentively towards him; the father did not know that just so Frances' face was in the line of vision, but Edward knew. It needed but the flicker of an eyelid for him to watch the supple figure in its careless lounging; the fluff of the dark hair above her forehead, the curve of the long black lashes as she gazed thoughtfully into the fire. A cosy fireside, an easy chair and this same occupant for it flashed for a moment on the horizon of his dreamings. It was but a dream he dared not name even to himself,--a vision that dazzled him. He put his hand over his eyes. The professor broke the thread of his argument. "You are tired?" "I! no--ah--" the young man stammered. "Well, here, take this home with you when you go! Read it for yourself, and see what you think of it; I expect some others," he added shamefacedly. "Father!" cried Frances mischievously, "Mr. Montague, he's started," she added comically, "there's no stopping him. He'll go with no particular interest for ever so long, then something attracts him," she spread out her hands as if in dismay, "we are flooded with papers and pamphlets; he won't let me touch them. When it is all over I gather them up and--" she made a gesture as if flinging an armful of trash into the fire. "You have touched him on his most vulnerable point now. I don't know when he will stop." "You had better stop, yourself," said the professor chafing a little under her teasing. "I warn you, he will try--" "Now, daughter!" he knew what she was going to say, "you know I never interfere with other people." "It's true, every word of it!" but Frances saw that her father was hurt a trifle. She came behind his chair and put her arms about his shoulders, laughing over his head at Edward who was watching her with half envious amusement. "Professors should be bald," she said lightly, "now look at this!" She ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair, wavy about the temples where the gray showed in the black. Her father looked up at her adoringly, his eyes--which were often stern--dark and loving. "If they were, they would have no young woman to bother them, rumpling it up." "You are lucky, sir, to have one; isn't he?" Young Montague was silent, but Frances, looking up, saw his eyes. She slipped back to her chair. When he took his leave, later in the evening, he had his own special plea. "You've promised to come and see the old place," he began. "Father is going to bring me some day."