"No fear of that, my dear," said he, pinching one of her plump fingers. "It will be rather a Darby and Joan marriage, of course," she smiled. "Will it?" replied Heriot, with a glint out of the corner of his eye that reminded her forcibly of the late Captain Dunbar. "Oh, Heriot!" she expostulated. "Remember you're the father of a grown-up family." "Well," he replied, with amorous facetiousness, "what man has done, man can do." The lady endeavored gently to withdraw her hand, but he held it firmly. "Will it be a long engagement?" she asked, with a colder smile. "By Jove, not very!" he whispered riotously. She felt like one of those intelligent persons who pull the triggers of supposititiously unloaded guns. By a supreme effort she mastered her emotion and remarked-- "I wonder what your family will say." He kissed her demonstratively and cried-- "My family be hanged! I'm not going to tell them yet." "When will you?" she asked, disengaging herself with a difficulty that impressed her still further. "Time enough when I get back from London." The widow was not altogether unsophisticated. This blend of abandonment and secrecy impressed her unfavorably. She had known of more than one ballroom proposal where the gentleman was just sufficiently master of his emotions to stipulate for silence till he had departed on a twelvemonth's furlough. "How soon are you coming back?" she inquired. "Week or two," he answered airily. "A week or two to see Colonel Munro!" "Intricate business," he answered her, with a fresh salute. "Poor old Charles Munro is a kind of relation of mine," she observed. He eyed her with more surprise than passion. "Oh! I didn't know that." "I haven't written to him for years. I think I must send him a letter this week." Mr. Walkingshaw realized that he was marrying brains as well as beauty. He also realized that Colonel Munro was now part of his London programme. However, on second thoughts, Charlie Munro was a dear old fellow, and very likely he'd have been looking him up in any case. His spirits bounded up again. In fact, why should they ever sink with such a fair creature by his side? "Do, darling," he whispered. She surrendered herself to his affection and sighed happily. Why should she feel disturbed with one of the most respectable of Writers to the Signet pledged to devote his declining years to her consolation? "I trust you, Heriot," she murmured. "My little duck!" he answered tenderly. * * * * * At twelve o'clock next morning the London express thundered on to the bridge across the Solway. Mr. Walkingshaw looked up at his son. "We're out of Scotland now," he said, with a sigh of reminiscent ardor. "Home and beauty are far behind us, Frank." Then in a different key he added-- "It is curious that my spirits should keep rising." From which it appeared that he had grown young enough to realize that though lunch may be over, there is always dinner to look forward to.