It never occurred to Frank and Jean to blame their father in any way for electing so boisterous a day for his probable decease. Clearly they had not so fine an instinct for respectability as their brother. Their orthodoxy, compared with his, was built upon a sandy foundation: warm hearts can never hope to sustain, in its impressive equipoise, the head of an Andrew Walkingshaw. One might as well expect to find sap running up the legs of his office stool. That afternoon they instinctively drifted away from the others and sat unhappily together. The gusty booming of the wind and the clash of branches in the garden across the gale-scourged street tormented them with fancies. It seemed as though a thousand riotous misfortunes were buffeting their hearts. "Rain!" cried Jean, with a little start and then a shiver. "Isn't it beastly?" muttered Frank, his eyes on the carpet. It came on with the sudden violence of a thunder-clap. In a moment the tossing trees became gesticulating ghosts seen dimly through a veil of glistening rods of water sharply diagonal--nearly horizontal; and even through the musketry rattle on the window-panes they could hear the pavement hiss beneath their deluge. "Oh, Frank dear!" murmured Jean. Giving way to illogical tenderness, the young soldier took her hand and held it. Of course, the least turn for hard argument would have reassured them. The storm would blow over; they could find new lovers; their father, even suppose he died, would receive suitable interment. Besides, they would be the richer by his decease. But they remained foolishly moved. "If anything does happen to father," said Jean sorrowfully, "I shall never forgive myself." Frank looked surprised. "Forgive yourself--for what?" "For not loving him more. I almost hated him yesterday." Her voice sank very low and she looked apprehensively at her brother. But he did not rebuke her as he ought. "It's jolly difficult to love him sometimes," he admitted sadly. She seemed to gain courage. "Frank," she said, "have you _ever_ actually felt as affectionate about him as one ought?" He shook his head. "He never struck me as wanting that kind of thing. I've respected him, of course." "Oh, so have I--enormously." "Well," said Frank, "that's all he wanted out of us, I fancy." "Still," she murmured, "we might have given him something more." "'Pon my word, I don't know what he'd have done with it."