“Have it your own way, Henery,” ses Bob Pretty; “on’y, if you asked me, I should say that he was my wife’s grandfather.” “_Your—wife’s—grandfather_?” ses Henery Walker, in a choking voice. He stood staring at ’im, stupid-like, for a minute or two, but he couldn’t get out another word. In a flash ’e saw ’ow he’d been done, and how Bob Pretty ’ad been deceiving ’im all along, and the idea that he ’ad arf ruined himself keeping Mrs. Pretty’s grandfather for ’em pretty near sent ’im out of his mind. [Illustration: “He slammed the door in Bob Pretty’s face.”] “But how is it ’is name was Josiah Walker, same as Henery’s great-uncle?” ses Bill Chambers, who ’ad been crowding round with the others. “Tell me that!” “He ’ad a fancy for it,” ses Bob Pretty, “and being a ’armless amusement we let him ’ave his own way. I told Henery Walker over and over ag’in that it wasn’t his uncle, but he wouldn’t believe me. I’ve got witnesses to it. Wot did you say, Henery?” Henery Walker drew ’imself up as tall as he could and stared at him. Twice he opened ’is mouth to speak but couldn’t, and then he made a odd sort o’ choking noise in his throat, and slammed the door in Bob Pretty’s face. A LOVE-KNOT [Illustration] A LOVE-KNOT Mr. Nathaniel Clark and Mrs. Bowman had just finished their third game of draughts. It had been a difficult game for Mr. Clark, the lady’s mind having been so occupied with other matters that he had had great difficulty in losing. Indeed, it was only by pushing an occasional piece of his own off the board that he had succeeded. “A penny for your thoughts, Amelia,” he said, at last. Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly. “They were far away,” she confessed. Mr. Clark assumed an expression of great solemnity; allusions of this kind to the late Mr. Bowman were only too frequent. He was fortunate when they did not grow into reminiscences of a career too blameless for successful imitation. “I suppose,” said the widow, slowly—“I suppose I ought to tell you: I’ve had a letter.” Mr. Clark’s face relaxed. “It took me back to the old scenes,” continued Mrs. Bowman, dreamily. “I have never kept anything back from you, Nathaniel. I told you all about the first man I ever thought anything of—Charlie Tucker?” Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “You did,” he said, a trifle hoarsely. “More than once.” “I’ve just had a letter from him,” said Mrs. Bowman, simpering. “Fancy, after all these years! Poor fellow, he has only just heard of my husband’s death, and, by the way he writes—” She broke off and drummed nervously on the table. “He hasn’t heard about me, you mean,” said Mr. Clark, after waiting to give her time to finish. “How should he?” said the widow. “If he heard one thing, he might have heard the other,” retorted Mr. Clark. “Better write and tell him. Tell him that in six weeks’ time you’ll be Mrs. Clark. Then, perhaps, he won’t write again.”