“Don't want any one to walk home with you?” suggested Uncle Gutton. “Sure you won't feel lonely by yourselves, eh?” “We shan't come to no harm,” assured him Miss Sellars. “P'raps you're right,” agreed Uncle Gutton. “There don't seem to be much of the fiery and untamed about him, so far as I can see.” “'Slow waters run deep,'” reminded us Aunt Gutton, with a waggish shake of her head. “No question about the slow,” assented Uncle Gutton. “If you don't like him--” observed Miss Sellars, speaking with dignity. “To be quite candid with you, my girl, I don't,” answered Uncle Gutton, whose temper, maybe as the result of too much cold pork and whiskey, seemed to have suddenly changed. “Well, he happens to be good enough for me,” recommenced Miss Sellars. “I'm sorry to hear a niece of mine say so,” interrupted Uncle Gutton. “If you want my opinion of him--” “If ever I do I'll call round some time when you're sober and ast you for it,” returned Miss Sellars. “And as for being your niece, you was here when I came, and I don't see very well as how I could have got out of it. You needn't throw that in my teeth.” The gust was dispersed by the practical remark of brother George to the effect that the last tram for Walworth left the Oval at eleven-thirty; to which he further added the suggestion that the Clapham Road was wide and well adapted to a row. “There ain't going to be no rows,” replied Uncle Gutton, returning to amiability as suddenly as he had departed from it. “We understand each other, don't we, my girl?” “That's all right, uncle. I know what you mean,” returned Miss Sellars, with equal handsomeness. “Bring him round again when he's feeling better,” added Uncle Gutton, “and we'll have another look at him.” “What you want,” advised the watery-eyed young man on shaking hands with me, “is complete rest and a tombstone.” I wished at the time I could have followed his prescription. The maternal Sellars waddled after us into the passage, which she completely blocked. She told me she was delight-ted to have met me, and that she was always at home on Sundays. I said I would remember it, and thanked her warmly for a pleasant evening, at Miss Sellars' request calling her Ma. Outside, Miss Sellars agreed that my presentiment had proved correct--that I had not shone to advantage. Our journey home on a tramcar was a somewhat silent proceeding. At the door of her room she forgave me, and kissed me good night. Had I been frank with her, I should have thanked her for that evening's experience. It had made my course plain to me. The next day, which was Thursday, I wandered about the streets till two o'clock in the morning, when I slipped in quietly, passing Miss Sellars' door with my boots in my hand. After Mr. Lott's departure on Friday, which, fortunately, was pay-day, I set my desk in order and confided to Minikin written instructions concerning all matters unfinished.