Ronald Bruce smiled at the simplicity and freedom with which honest John Palmer gave advice involving the loss or gain of a large estate, but was saved the trouble of replying by his wife Susan, who struck into the conversation with: “But law, John, the old gentleman’s _feelings_ ought to be considered _some_. It ain’t _all_ a question of money, nor it ain’t all a question of honor; but of kindness and of feelings.” “We be talking of principles, my dear, not feelings. But there, what’s the use of arguing? Men will be guided by principles and women by feelings while the world stands, for ‘sich is life.’ And youth will be guided by its own wayward will. This young gentleman will do as he pleases, after all.” Ronald Bruce laughed, but did not commit himself. Em. was perfectly silent. And the deepening twilight threw her beautiful face into such dark shadow that her lover could not see its expression. John Palmer started another topic by speaking of the island and the mysterious stranger who owned it. “They say as she is as fair as an angel of light; but how can they tell that, since nobody has ever seen her face unveiled?” said John. “I know nothing about her,” replied the guest, “except what the gossip of the country people tell me, which may not be true.” They discoursed concerning the White Spirit until one of the boys came out of the house and whispered to his mother that supper was on the table. Susan Palmer arose in good, old-fashioned, rustic style and invited her guest to walk in and partake, adding, with polite hypocrisy, that she hoped he would excuse the plainness of fare they had to set before him. Young Bruce laughed as he replied that there was no doubt the viands were excellent in themselves and much better than he deserved—and so, with the custom of _his_ class, he offered his arm to Mrs. Palmer to take her to supper. Susan accepted it and marched in. John looked on with an amused smile, and then gravely took Em.’s hand and tucked it under his arm and followed into the spacious dining-room of the old house, where his first words were an exclamation of honest astonishment: “OH, MY!” It cannot be denied that the table and the supper were a triumph of decorative art and culinary science—adorned with the choicest flowers of the conservatory, and laden with the daintiest luxuries of the season. But covers were laid for four only—for John, Susan, Em. and their guest. “For,” said Aunt Monica, in consultation with Mrs. Whitlock, “you an’ de chillun will ’joy yourselves a dreat deal more eatin’ of your fill ’long of yourselves dan siftin’ down dere, ’shamed to eat as much as you want ’fore de quality.”