"And he is as much my friend as though he had not departed something over five centuries ago," said Trafford; "of that I feel convinced." "I wonder if he knows any better, now, how to paint an angel leaning from the sky," replied Margaret. * * * * * "Have you any idea why Miss Harrison invented that enormous fiction about you?" he said, as they drove homeward. "Not the least. We must ask her." They found her in her easy-chair, beginning a new stocking. "I thought you were in Tadmor," she said, as Trafford came in. "I started; but came back to ask a question. Why did you tell me that this young lady was going to be married?" "Well, isn't she?" said Miss Harrison, laughing. "Sit down, you two, and confess your folly. Margaret has been ill all summer with absolute pining--yes, you have, child, and it is a woman's place to be humble. And you, Trafford, did not look especially jubilant, either, for a man who has been immensely amused during the same space of time. I did what I could for you by inventing a sort of neutral ground upon which you could meet and speak. It is very neutral for the other man, you know, when the girl is going to be married; he can speak to her then as well as not! I was afraid last night that you were not going to take advantage of my invention; but I see that it has succeeded (in some mysterious way out in all this rain) better than I knew. It was, I think," she concluded, as she commenced on a new needle, "a sort of experiment of mine--a Florentine experiment." Trafford burst into a tremendous laugh, in which, after a moment, Margaret joined. "I don't know what you two are laughing at," said Miss Harrison, surveying them. "I should think you ought to be more sentimental, you know." "To confess all the truth, Aunt Ruth," said Trafford, going across and sitting down beside her, "Margaret and I have tried one or two of those experiments already!" A WAITRESS As the evening was delightful, their coffee was served in the garden. Modesta brought out a low table and a tray; then, returning to the kitchen, she came forth again with the coffee-pot, fresh from the fire, and filled the two cups, one for Dennison, the other for his guest, Edward Gray. The coffee was fragrant, very hot, very black. John Dennison never took at night more than this one small cupful; but it was necessary that the quality of the drops within should be of the purest, and Peppino, the cook, knew that he must not fail. The dinner which had preceded the coffee had been excellent. "Well, Jack, you _live_ well!" Gray had remarked, after he had spent two days with his former school-fellow.