The young Englishman, standing back at the window, smiled at the little scene, at the pretty soft little lady who had got up anxiously and left her work on the chair, at the dog's evident enjoyment, his pretence of remorse and abandonment, the slow wag of his tail as he waited for his mistress to approach, the swift rush with which he made his escape. At last, when he had drawn her to the limit of the garden, he suddenly dropped the basket, raced back to her chair, and seizing a loose tassel which she had been about to sew on to a cushion, pranced up to the young man with an air of infinite triumph. Miss Cartwright turned round and saw her nephew emerging. "Jack, is it you?" she cried. And then she hurried towards him with both her kind hands outstretched. "My dear, dear boy, I can hardly believe it; this is delightful, this is why I have had no letter! Have you just come? Have you had nothing to eat? Angela shall send up something at once, and Winter shall go to Franconi's. My dear, it is so good to see you, and I was thinking of nothing but that naughty dog. What is that you are taking out of his mouth?" "I'm afraid it's a tassel," said Jack gravely. "Shall I flog him?" Miss Cartwright was one of those kind gentle people whose conscience and soft-heartedness are always falling foul of each other. "Perhaps it does not so much matter," she said hurriedly; "it is only the same tassel which he has torn off so often before, that I daresay he fancies he has a sort of right to it." "I'm very much afraid he is giving you no end of trouble," said Jack remorsefully. "Oh, my dear, no! He is wonderfully good, and so affectionate that sometimes it quite brings the tears into my eyes. But of course he is young, and one can't expect him to understand everything at once, can one?" "That is the old story, Aunt Mary," said Jack, smiling kindly; "I have got too much good out of the excuse myself to begrudge it to Cartouche." But Miss Cartwright hardly heard his words; she was looking at him, her face full of that sweet warm happiness which often brightens lives which seem to us on-lookers grey and commonplace. What do we know, after all? The passionate thrills, the great tides of emotion, which we call happiness, are often more nearly allied to pain; true bliss creeps out from strange, unlooked-for crannies, from the unselfishness which has seemed to set it aside. Jack was struck and touched by the gladness in her face, by the peace of the little garden, its vines and its roses. He had a feeling as if it could not last, as if he himself were bringing in the element of unrest. He stopped his aunt when she was beginning to question him. "You have not heard how Cartouche got at me." "No--did he know your step? Oh, my dear," she said, pausing blankly. "Well?" "I have just remembered I had shut him into an upstairs room, and the key is in my pocket."