"Of course you are going to the match on Saturday?" said she. "Of course, Madge." "Have you forgotten Mr. Berstoun is coming to see you?" asked Miss Walkingshaw. He waved aside this objection with a dignified sweep of his hand. A piece of cake happened to be in it, and the icing flew across the floor. On the instant he was on his hands and knees collecting it. "Berstoun's a mere nuisance," he answered from the carpet. "He'll never get out of debt if he lives to a thousand. What's the good in his coming to see me? Let him tell his creditors to go to the devil; that's the only sensible thing to do." He rose chuckling-- "He'll go himself some day; so they'll meet again." His sister's face was too much for the widow's gravity. She began to laugh hysterically, her black eyes dancing all the time in the merriest fashion at her host. It was so infectious that in a moment he had joined her. "Won't they?" he kept asking through his chuckles. "Won't they, Madge?" She kept nodding, choked with laughter, and another strange sensation began to puzzle Mr. Walkingshaw. It was not so much something new as something forgotten which was beginning to return, and it concerned this very sympathetic widow. She was an uncommonly nice woman--really uncommonly: and what an odd pleasure he began to feel in her society! He felt even more satisfaction than when he had run down his hat. CHAPTER III It was upon a fine April morning that Mr. Walkingshaw made his momentous discovery. His sister had left her room on her way to breakfast when she heard his voice calling her. It had so curious a note of excitement that she got a little flustered. Whatever could be the matter? She hurried to his dressing-room door and tapped with a trembling hand. She was not easily agitated as a rule, but her brother had been very disconcerting for the past few weeks, and now his voice was odd. She remembered reading of gentlemen lying on their dressing-room floors with razors in their hands-- "Come in!" he cried impatiently. She found him dressed all but his coat, and he was standing by the window looking out over the street and the circular garden. "Come here, Mary," he said, and pointed at the houses seen through the leafless trees. "Have they been doing anything to the Hendersons' house?" "What doing to it?" she exclaimed. "Painting it, or brightening it, or--or anything of that kind?" "Who ever heard of painting a house!" From which it may be gathered that the good lady was not in the habit of visiting other cities. "Well then, washing it?" "Mr. Henderson washing his house! Whatever would he do that for?" "Tuts, tuts," said her brother, "I'm only asking you. It looks so uncommonly distinct. Can you not count the chimney-cans?" "Me? You must get younger eyes than mine, Heriot." "I can count them," he answered. "_You_ can! But I thought you'd been complaining you couldn't always recognize people across the street nowadays."