The boy had swiftly "taken her in," to use his own expressive phrase, and afterwards was able to say that she wore a bonnet, not a hat, that long ringlets of grey hair hung down each side of her face, that her dress was of silk and black, and that she held in her hand a slender chain, to which was attached a dog of the most melancholy countenance, and a shape that made William grin. "What are you laughing at?" demanded the lady. "The dog; if it is a dog." "And a very good dog it is too." "Well, I've seen pictures of 'em," said William politely, "but I ain't never believed it till now." "Believed what?" "The face and the shape----" "There's nothing the matter with the shape," was the tart response; "Dick's a Daschund." "A what! Oh! Gee! Say, my tongue always rolls around like it had no roots when I strike a word like that." "No wonder; a boy of your age should be at school." "School! not for mine, lady. I've gotter make a livin'." "A living--you! What are you doing here?" "I'm the office boy." "Office boy! Whose office boy?" "Mister Whimple's." "You're a liar," the words were snapped out with a force and directness that William afterwards declared put him "on the blinks" for a few seconds. The only retort that he would have made to one of his own sex rose swiftly to the boyish lips, and stayed there. He rose--who shall say what freak of imagination swayed him then--and took a step toward the lady. His hand went to his cap--in the encounter he had forgotten it until then--and off it came with a sweeping bow. He was no longer William, or Willie, or Bill; he was no longer an office boy; this was not Toronto. Here was the lady of the castle, proud, imperious, haughty; he was one who served under the banner of her lord. Beyond, was the great old house, surrounded with stately trees and fine driveways, and Sir William Adolphus Turnpike, in a voice he did not know, was saying, "Fair lady, I am thine to command. If I have offended I prithee forgive; 'twas not my intent, I do assure thee." And the lady--what half-forgotten dreams came surging to her mind. Long ago, so long ago, there had been a boy with a heart of gold that had lost none of its admiration for her when the boy gave place to the man. But on a far-off border line of the empire he had given his life for the flag, and out of her life there had gone the dreams of a future with him. All through the years since then she had held her heart against those who would have stormed it, and now--and now--she tried to speak, but her lips were tremulous and her eyes tear-dimmed. She courtesied low and with grace, and William, who was standing with the ink-stained fingers of one hand clutching his cap and the other held where he thought his heart might be, felt a thrill of sympathy. "Lady," he said softly, "I await your command."