"I am very idle," she was saying to herself, "but I feel that not one of the books that ever were written would interest me to-day. I have no spirit or energy for travels, history is too full of war and bloodshed, and biography would weary me; a novel--well, no I think not; I am not in the mood for other people's love-stories. I wish some one would write a novel about elderly people," she went on--"middle-aged, prosaic people, who have outlived their romance. How soothing such a book would be! I could almost write it myself. There should be plenty of incident, and very little moralising; and it would be like one of those grey winter days, when the sunlight is veiled in soft vapour, and every window one passes is red with the firelight of home." The fancy pleased her, and she smiled at her own conceit; but it faded in a moment when the door-bell rang. "A visitor at this time in the morning!" she thought, and a little frown of annoyance gathered on her brow; but it vanished when Mitchell threw open the door and announced Lord Ralston. "Why, Moritz!" she exclaimed, and her voice was full of surprise and pleasure, "this is indeed a welcome sight. How long is it since you last honoured our poor abode? Draw that chair up to the fire and give some account of yourself. Even Gwen seems to have forgotten our existence since baby Murdoch made his appearance!" "Ah, you may well say so," returned Moritz, with a dismal shake of his head. "Gwen is incorrigible. I give you my word, Althea, that the beatitude of that young woman is so excessive and so fatuous that it resembles idiocy. She fairly drivels with sentiment over that infant, and he is as ugly and snub-nosed a little chap as Gwen was herself. He has even got her freckles; and she calls them beauty-spots;" and Lord Ralston's voice expressed unmitigated disgust. Althea laughed. "I do not suppose that Madam endorses these sentiments. I should like to hear Mrs. Compton's opinion of her grandson." "Well, she vows he is a fine child, and he has got Jack's eyes. But, all the same, I heard her tell Gwen that a plain baby often became a handsome man. So we can make our own deductions from that. 'Murdoch has his good points,' she went on, 'and he will improve.' And, would you believe it? that idiotic Gwen became as red as a turkey-cock. "'There is no improvement wanted,' she said, indignantly. 'My precious baby is perfect. He is beautiful in his mother's eyes, whatever his cross old grandmother chooses to say!' And then she hugged the little chap and cried over him, and all the time Madam sat beaming on them both, with her fine old face tremulous with happiness. "It is Ruth and Naomi over again," finished Moritz. "Madam still finds fault with Jack sometimes, but never with Gwen, and the way Gwen toadies her passes belief."