"I can count those chimneys," he repeated. "I've counted them five times, and they come to fourteen each time. I'd like to get some one younger to count them too. Where's Madge Dunbar?" He started impetuously for the door. "She's dressing!" cried the horrified lady. "You can't get her in here--you with your coat off, too!" Mr. Walkingshaw turned back. "Well, anyhow," said he, "I'll lay you half a crown there are fourteen chimneys on Henderson's house. Will you take it up?" "When did you hear I'd taken to betting?" she gasped. He waved aside the reproach airily, much as he waved aside everything she said nowadays, the poor lady reflected. His next words merely deepened her distress. "Look at my face carefully," he commanded. "Study it--touch it if you like--examine it with a lens--give it your undivided attention while I count twenty." He counted slowly, while she stared conscientiously, afraid even to wink. "Now, what have you observed?" "You're looking very well, Heriot," she answered timidly. "Did you ever see a man of my age look better?" "N--no," she stammered. "Well, don't be afraid to say so, for it's perfectly true. Do you mind a kind of deep wrinkle under my eyes? Where's that gone now?" "I can't imagine, Heriot." "Well, don't look distressed; it's bonnier away." "Yes," she said in a flustered voice, "you do have a kind of smoother look." "Smoother and harder," he replied, prodding his ribs with his fingers. She gave a little cry of distress. "You're growing thin! Your waistcoat's hanging quite loose. Oh, Heriot, it's terrible to see you that way!" Her heart might be a little withered by all those northern winters, with never another heart to keep it warm, but it could still beat faster at a breath of suspicion cast upon her hospitality. She had not been feeding her only brother properly! "Tell me yourself what you'd like for your dinner!" she entreated him. He laughed at her genially. "Pooh! Tuts! Did you ever in your life see me eat a better dinner than I've been taking lately? You might give one a suet pudding oftener, but that's all I have to complain of." Heriot had always been addicted to suet pudding, but for a number of years past his doctor's opinion had been adverse to this form of diet for a gentleman of gouty habit. "But what about your gout, Heriot?" she asked. "Gout? Fiddle-de-dee! Who's got gout? Not I, for one." He had been glancing complacently at his improved reflection in the mirror. Abruptly he stepped up close to the glass and examined his visage with unconcealed excitement. "Good God!" he murmured. Then, with much the expression Crusoe must have worn when he spied the footprint, he turned to his sister, and, grasping a lock of hair upon his brow, bent his head towards her, and demanded-- "What color's that?" "Dear me," she said, "it looks quite brown. I didn't know you had any brown hair left."