anything of any stone at all. Laura could have anticipated her brothers’ every gambit to you, if she had not been occupied in discovering how different from the Justin of relaxed waistcoat and pre-historic tweeds was the Justin of evening dress and hospitable exertions, if she had not been so delightfully employed in saying how-do-you-do to his creaseless shirt-front and discreet studs and the unusually high collar that suited him better than she could have believed, and in renewing acquaintance with his deep voice and his slow sentences and his kind eyes. Dinner-parties were rare enough for Mrs. Cloud to be similarly engaged. Somewhere near his tie (it was a badly managed affair—the hands of both women were itching to be at it) their glances met and exchanged conviction that you might scour many more dinner-tables than England held before you found another Justin. “He has his little faults, of course,” conceded Laura’s eyes. “And I am the first to admit them,” returned Mrs. Cloud’s. “Nobody ever pretended that he was perfect,” Laura frowned. “At the same time——” laughed the old eyes. “And without partiality——” amended the young one’s— “Have _you_ ever seen any one like him?” they demanded triumphantly: and Laura and Mrs. Cloud smiled at each other across the table. Dinner was over. Sugar and cream followed the mound of strawberries from plate to plate, and Gran’papa was saying “_Doubtless_——” in the unnatural voice of one about to make a quotation, when Mrs. Cloud lifted her finger. “Timothy!” she said resignedly and pushed back her chair. “What about him?” Justin was at the side-board, busy with cork-screw and a bottle. “Listen!” There was a thin piping in the air, the merest adumbration of a sound that might have been a mouse, a creak in the woodwork, a whistle of wind, or, if one were a grandmother, a child whimpering. “I don’t hear anything,” said Mr. Valentine testily. He disliked a reminder of his deafness. “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Cloud. “It’s the same every night. He likes some one to sit with him——” “Now, Mother——” Justin’s hand on her shoulder would not let her rise. “You stay where you are! Timothy’s all right. He gets over you. He’s got to learn to go to sleep by himself.” Laura agreed. “I don’t think a child is ever too young to be trained. If you once give way——” “Exactly!” Justin nodded approval. “It’s a question of discipline. Now, Mother——” for Mrs. Cloud was gazing unhappily at the younger generation. “He’ll soon learn to be quiet if you take no notice.” He was a little impatient. It was a difficult to enjoy his strawberries while his mother worried. “Yes, really, Mrs. Cloud,” Laura reassured her kindly. “It’s the only way.” “My dear children, he’ll cry the house down.” Mrs. Cloud could not be annoyed with Justin, or with Laura who appreciated Justin, but her voice was plaintive. “You don’t understand. It’s so bad for a child——”