"I'd like to see Andrew's face when he learns I've gone!" "But aren't you going to tell him?" Mr. Walkingshaw's voice sank. "Not a word to any of them, Frank! You put my things into your cab without any one noticing; I'll say I'm going to the office; and we'll meet at the station. I don't want to get talked about, you see." It was reassuring to find that Mr. Walkingshaw still valued his reputation, even though the measures he took to preserve it were not excessively convincing. "All right, then," said Frank; "I'd better go and pack now. Good-night." "Good-night, my boy," his father answered fervently. "God bless you!" The Cromarty Highlander had been through some nerve-testing experiences, but, as he went to his room, he realized that the severest ordeals often occur in civil life. Meanwhile, his parent at a leisurely pace was following him upstairs when he perceived a light still burning in the drawing-room. He gently pushed the door open, and a smile of peculiar pleasure irradiated his rosy face. There, busy at the writing-table and quite alone, sat the sympathetic widow. He remembered how prettily she had answered a simple interjection once before. "Hullo!" he warbled. CHAPTER VII The widow started and turned in her chair. This time she did not archly cap his greeting. Instead, her exclamation had a tincture of alarm. He was so very unlike his usual self. "Writing a billet-doux?" he inquired, still smiling. He softly closed the door behind him, and approached her with a kind of jaunty, springy gait that increased her perplexity. She loved to see him lively, but this smirking manner was really almost peculiar. "May I sit at your feet, Madge?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, drew up a footstool and planted himself so close to her knees that the sense of propriety felt by all fine women with any experience of life impelled her to withdraw them some three inches farther from his shoulder. At the same time she bent her head a very little forward and gently drew in her breath. The late Captain Dunbar had possessed in addition to the virtues of a dashing temperament, certain of its failings, and her cousin's demeanor decidedly reminded her of his conduct after particularly convivial evenings at the mess. But the test was reassuring. Her nose was keen, and she noticed nothing--absolutely nothing. "What a beastly big barn of a room this is," he began. She was at a loss quite what to answer. Could he mean this: he who prided himself on the becoming stateliness of his house? "Oh, I think it is a very fine and--and--impressive room, Heriot," she answered guardedly. "It's too big and gloomy for a widower. It makes one feel kind of lonely." The widow smiled sweetly. She quite understood what he meant now. The reminiscence of the late Captain Dunbar faded away, and once more she was sympathy itself. "Are you often lonely?" she inquired softly. He looked up into her face with a curious hint of boyishness in his face.