In a moment Pallister's look of worriment changed to one of temporary happiness. He was an undersized little fellow, doing the duties of his insignificant career with a gentle manner. He was her father's household secretary, amanuensis, a paid servant, it is true; but critics of the Wilkinson household always maintained two things: first, that there was only one gentlewoman there--Leslie; and only one gentleman--Pallister. Leslie liked him, yet she could not eradicate from the humorous part of her nature the fact that Pallister was ever like a shuttlecock, dancing his dignified but harried attendance now upon Peter V. and then upon another member of the household, whose demands were even more exacting. "Have you been shot out of a cannon, Mr. Pallister?" she persisted. Pallister turned his eyes away from hers: he didn't dare to look at Leslie too long. To him she was just a bit too bewildering. After a time his glance crept back to hers. "Yes, Miss Wilkinson," he said nervously, "and what's more, I've got to come back directly and face the cannon's mouth again." Leslie touched him lightly on the shoulder; a thrill passed through the young man's frame. "Never mind," she said smilingly, "I'm going up to spike the cannon for you." On reaching the second floor she knocked gently, but persistently, at a boudoir door. "Oh, who is it now?" came in a petulant, nasal voice from within. "Come in, if you're coming; otherwise stay out!" And an expression of something like pain crossed the girl's face as she entered. Sitting up in bed in a flowered-silk kimona, a lady was sipping a claret cup. Year after year, like the Wilkinson mansion, the lineaments and form of this lady had been portrayed in the press throughout the country; and long after she was entitled to any claim to comeliness, she had been heralded as one of the beauties of the universe. As a matter of fact, her delicate form--if delicate form she had ever possessed--had been wholly obliterated by a generous layer of avoirdupois--lumps wherever the lumps were the least needed. "Oh, it's you, is it?" she snapped. Leslie groaned inwardly as she looked at the woman before her; for this lady of leisure was the Maggie Lane mentioned by the megaphone--Margaret Lane Wilkinson now, but still Maggie by nature--and her step-mother! The girl's eyes moistened as she thought of her own mother that she had known, and who had died a short time ago. For in the case of Wilkinson the funeral baked meats had almost furnished the marriage feast. "Anything I can do?" asked the young girl, forcing up the pleasant little smile that was always part and parcel of Leslie Wilkinson. The lady of the flowered kimona did not respond at once, but kept her eyes fastened on the door. "I told Jeffries to get those extras right away--he's been gone an hour," she complained.