"You should take to writing," was what she did say, presently. "You have a splendid capital to draw upon." "Do you write?" "No." "It is odd you should speak of it. There's nothing I would sooner do for a living--and something I've got to do--only I doubt if I have it in me to do any good with my pen. I may have the capital, but I couldn't lay it out to save my life." He spoke wistfully, however, as though he were not sure. And now Miss Lowndes seemed the more sympathethic for her momentary lapse. She was very sure indeed. "You have only to write those things down as you tell them, and I'm certain they would take!" "Very well," laughed Harry, "I'll have a try--when I have time. I suppose you know what your father promises me?" "No, indeed I don't," cried Miss Lowndes. "The Secretaryship of this new Company when it comes out!" For some moments the girl was silent, and then: "I'd rather see you writing," she said. "But this would mean three hundred a year." "I would rather make one hundred by my pen!" Harry said that he would, too, as far as liking was concerned, but that there were other considerations. He added that of course he did not count upon the Secretaryship, which seemed far too good a thing to be really within his reach, for it would be many a day before he was worth three hundred a year in any capacity. Nevertheless, it was very kind of Mr. Lowndes to have thought of such a thing at all. "He is kind," murmured the girl, breaking a silence which had influenced Harry's tone. And it was a something in her tone that made him exclaim: "He is the kindest man I have ever met!" "You really think so?" she cried, wistfully. "I know it," said Harry, at once touched and interested by her manner. "It isn't as if he'd only been kind to me. He was more than kind three days ago, and--and I didn't take it very well from him at first; but I shall never forget it now! It isn't only that, however; it's his kindness to my dear mother that I feel much more; and then--he was my father's friend!" They walked on without a word--they were nearly home now--and this time Harry thought less of his companion's silence, for what could she say? But already he felt that he could say anything to her, and "You knew my father?" broke from him in a low voice. "Oh, yes; I knew him very well." "He has been here?" said Harry, looking at the semi-detached house with a new and painful interest as they stopped at the gate. "Yes; two or three times." "When was the last?" But the latch clicked with his words, and Miss Lowndes was hastening up the path. CHAPTER VIII. A MILLIONAIRE IN THE MAKING. There was a bright light in the little drawing-room, and Harry made sure that the master of the house had returned from town. Miss Lowndes put the question as soon as the door was opened, however, and he heard the reply as he followed her within. "No, miss, not yet." "Then who is here?" "Mr. Huxtable." "Mr. Huxtable--in the drawing-room?"