Sylvester flushed, as if at a rebuke. Knowing his father, he was aware of indiscretion. Matthew had always maintained the most impenetrable reserve as regards his business affairs; the son had been trained from childhood to look upon them as sacrosanct, and to question was an indecency. “I beg your pardon, father,” he said deferentially. “I mentioned the fact, for obvious reasons,” said Matthew. “Quite so,” said Sylvester, and then hesitating and finally blurting it out, as if he were ashamed of it, he added,-- “I know you are a father confessor to every poor devil in trouble.” The old man looked at his son and his kind eyes grew a little moist. Any tribute of faith and love from Sylvester touched him deeply. But he laughed and said characteristically,-- “There are some people who'll tell you anything, if you 're only soft-headed enough to listen to them.” Then he nodded towards the window, and waved his hand,-- “There is one, anyhow, who doesn't want a confessor.” It was Ella, standing in the clear March sunshine of the garden, looking in through the French window, and holding up a bunch of fresh-gathered violets. With a word of adieu to his father, Sylvester went out and joined her. She pinned the flowers in his buttonhole and for ten pleasant minutes they walked along the trim-kept paths. “You were not angry with me last night?” he asked. She murmured very meekly,--“If I were, I should not be here with you now.” “I never thought I should--ever do such a thing again,” he said awkwardly. “I couldn't help it. It has made a different man of me.” She drew herself up quite proudly and looked him straight in the eyes. They were brave, clear eyes, and so were the man's that met them. “Are you in earnest?” she asked. “Am I the man not to be in earnest?” he answered. The doctor's page, running across the strip of lawn to them, broke the spell with the time-honoured morning announcement,-- “There is some one in the surgery, sir.” Sylvester dismissed the urchin and looked at his watch. It was some minutes past his consultation hour. “We will have a long talk this evening,” he said, bidding her farewell. CHAPTER IV--LEROUX SPEAKS Matthew and Miss Lanyon were standing under the front porch talking over poor Frank Leroux when Ella came up with a very happy face. “What a colour you 've got, child!” cried Agatha Lanyon. “It is the fresh country air. I was being choked in town.” “And the country people,” suggested the elder lady, archly. “And the fresh country people,” assented Ella. “My dear,” said Matthew to his sister, “this is the first time we've been complimented on our adorable rusticity.” “We don't count,” said Miss Lanyon. “I never knew you could be so wicked,” cried Ella, taking her by her shoulders and kissing her. Whereupon she disappeared into the house. “I do hope it is settled,” said Miss Lanyon, with a little sentimental sigh. “What?”