"Have you?"--there was a sparkle in her eyes.--"How good of you! What did he say?" "Told me to hold my tongue." Her face fell. "I must talk to Andrew about it." Frank smiled sardonically. "I'm afraid you won't find him very sympathetic either." She looked down at her little pointed shoe and said nothing. "Who isn't very sympathetic, Frank?" asked Miss Walkingshaw, suddenly looking up. He started guiltily. "Oh--er--a lot of fellows one can think of," he explained. Mrs. Dunbar looked at the two young people curiously. She knew whom she herself did not consider sympathetic, and jumped to a conclusion. There was nothing the junior partner would dislike more than being critically discussed by that dear girl who was so much too nice for him, and that engaging boy who was so infinitely better-looking. It seemed a pity they could not enjoy their conversation without interruption. "Would you like me to play you something, dear?" she asked. "Oh yes, dear," said Miss Walkingshaw. "Do, please!" They were the most affectionate of friends. Indeed, it was touching to see how devoted Madge was to Heriot's wintry sister. Nobody else had ever seen so much in her to love. The music began, and, once started, showed no sign of stopping. Over the top of her music Mrs. Dunbar's black eyes smiled a discreet approval of the confidential pair. She only wished that Andrew, gagged and bound beneath his brother's chair, was here to listen to them. She was sure they must be discussing something it would do him good to hear. "Is Mr. Vernon a very nice man?" asked Ellen. "One of the best. These artist fellows are apt to be a bit swollen-headed for my taste, but Lucas Vernon's a sportsman." She appreciated the distinction succinctly indicated. "He does sound nice," she said. "Oh, I wish everybody had enough money!" Frank drew another distinction. "Everybody who deserved it, anyhow." "Well," said Ellen softly, "if I had the arrangement of things, I would risk it and give _everybody_ enough. It makes me so unhappy to see people longing for things they can never possibly get--whether they deserve them or not." The young soldier looked at her oddly from the corner of his eye. Could it be possible that two people could sit so close together and speak in such hushed confidence, and yet that one of them could be so strangely oblivious as not to know when she had laid her slender little finger on the other's open wound? He had the strictest notions of duty and of honor: it was absolutely essential she never should realize: but, alas! the sympathetic widow was playing the most divinely romantic waltz. To complete the horrible temptation, Ellen looked suddenly at him with her tender eyes shining and her delicate skin gently flushed and murmured-- "It makes me wretched--I pity them so!" The waltz grew more romantic with every note, the temptation to feel this pity soothe his own wound more irresistible. "I'm one of 'em," he said.