Blair, nervously playing with a key, stood by the fire in the drawing-room. Mrs. Kent had excused herself and gone upstairs. In the dining-room, across the hall, he could see Kathleen gleaning over the supper table while the maid cleared away the dishes. In spite of his peevishness, he smiled to see her pick up one of the stuffed eggs on a fork, taste it, and lay it down with a grimace. At the other end of the drawing-room Mr. Kent, leaning on his cane, was rummaging among some books. “Here we are,” said the antiquarian, hobbling back with several heavy tomes. “Here is Clarendon's History. Now I want to read you what he has to say about that incident in 1645, then I will read you my manuscript notes, to show you how they fill up the gaps. Kathleen!” “Yes, Dad,” answered Kathleen, coming into the room. “Will you get me my glasses, dear?” “Yes, indeed,” and she ran across the room to fetch them from the bookcase where he had left them. She seated herself on the arm of her father's chair. She was a charming and graceful figure, swinging the slender ankle that the Scorpions afterward described with imaginative fervour as “a psalm,” “a fairy-tale,” and “an aurora borealis.” They none of them ever agreed as to the dress she wore that evening; but Eliza Thick, who was perhaps the most observant, declared that it looked like a chintz curtain. I think it must have had small sprigs of flowers printed on it. Her eyes, exclaimed the broken-hearted gas-man, were like “a twilight with only two stars.” Perhaps he meant a street with two lamps lighted. “Oh, I'm so glad you're going to read your notes to Mr. Blair,” she said, mischievously. “They are so fascinating, and there's such a jolly lot of them.” “Perhaps Mr. Kent's eyes are tired?” said Blair, hastily. “Not a bit, not a bit!” said Mr. Kent. “I don't often get such a good listener. By the way, what happened to that nice young curate? I hope the gas-man didn't injure him?” Kathleen looked at Blair with dancing eyes. “He had to go,” declared Blair. “He was awfully sorry. He asked me to make his apologies.” “Perhaps the Bishop sent for him suddenly,” said Kathleen. “Well,” resumed Mr. Kent, “I shall begin with the Battle of Naseby. After that memorable struggle, a portion of the royalist forces--” The front-door bell trilled briskly. “Oh, dear me,” sighed poor Mr. Kent, looking up from his papers. “The fates are against us, Mr. Blair.” The Scotch terrier had been lying by the fire, caressed by the toe of Kathleen's slipper, as she sat on the arm of her father's chair. Suddenly he jumped up, wagging his tail, and barked with evident glee. A tall, dark-eyed girl, a little older than Kathleen, pushed the hall curtains aside and darted into the room. “Joe, you darling!” cried Kathleen. “How's your leg?” “What do you mean?” asked Joe. “Which leg? What's wrong with it?”