“Birds out of range, most of them--hard work getting what I did. As to the blinds, they are still half full of water--got soaking wet trying to use one. I shot most of mine from the boat just as the day broke,” and then followed a full account of what the party had bagged, with details of every day's adventures. This done, St. George pushed back his chair and faced the young man. “And now you take the witness-stand, sir--look me in the eyes, put your hand on your fob-pocket and tell me the truth. Todd says you have been here every day for a week looking as if you had lost your last fip-penny-bit and wild to see me. What has happened?” “Todd has a vivid imagination.” He turned in his seat, stretched out his hand, and catching one of the dogs by the nose rubbed his head vigorously. “Go on--all of it--no dodging the king's counsellor. What's the matter?” The young man glanced furtively at Todd, grabbed another dog, rubbed their two ears together in play, and in a lowered voice, through which a tinge of sadness was only too apparent, murmured: “Miss Kate--we've had a falling out.” St. George lowered his head suddenly and gave a low whistle:--“Falling out?--what about?” Again young Rutter glanced at Todd, whose back was turned, but whose ears were stretched to splitting point. His host nodded understandingly. “There, Todd--that will do; now go down and get your breakfast. No more waffles, tell Aunt Jemima. Bring the pipes over here and throw on another log... that's right.” A great sputtering of sparks followed--a spider-legged, mahogany table was wheeled into place, and the dejected darky left the room for the regions below. “So you two have had a quarrel! Oh, Harry!--when will you learn to think twice before you speak? Whose fault was it?” sighed St. George, filling the bowl of his pipe with his slender fingers, slowly tucking in each shred and grain. “Mine.” “What did you say?” (Puff-puff.) “Nothing--I couldn't. She came in and saw it all.” The boy had his elbows on the table now, his cheeks sunk in his hands. St. George looked up: “Drunk, were you?” “Yes.” “Where?” “At Mrs. Cheston's ball last week.” “Have you seen her since?” “No--she won't let me come near her. Mr. Seymour passed me yesterday and hardly spoke to me.” St. George canted his chair and zigzagged it toward the blazing hearth; then he said thoughtfully, without looking at the young man: “Well, this is a pretty kettle of fish! Have you told your father?” “No--he wouldn't understand.” “And I know you didn't tell your mother.” This came with the tone of positive conviction. “No--and don't you. Mother is daft on the subject. If she had her way, father would never put a drop of wine on the table. She says it is ruining the county--but that's mother's way.” St. George stooped over, fondled one of the dogs for a moment--two had followed Todd out of the room--settled back in his chair again, and still looking into the fire, said slowly: