From that day onwards he gave no sign of pain or preoccupation. Only the stamp of middle age upon his face betrayed the suffering through which he had passed. He concerned himself about Aline's marriage. Arrangements had been made for it to take place on the same day as that of their elders--a day, however, that Norma had never fixed. The recent catastrophe had caused its indefinite postponement. Aline declared herself to be in the same position as before, the responsibility of the beloved's welfare being again thrust upon her shoulders. She pleaded with her lover for delay, and young Merewether, disappointed though he was, acquiesced with good grace. At last Jimmie called them before him, and waving his old briar-root pipe, as he spoke, delivered his ultimatum. “My dear children,” said he, standing up before them, as they sat together on the rusty sofa, “you have the two greatest and most glorious things in a great and glorious world, youth and love. Don't despise the one and waste the other. Get all the beauty you can out of life and you'll shed it on other people. You'll shed it on me. That's why I want you to marry as soon as ever you are ready. You'll let me come and look at you sometimes, and if you are happy together, as God grant you will be, that will be my great happiness--the greatest I think that earth has in store for me. I have stood between you long enough--all that is over. I shall miss my little girl, Tony. I should be an inhuman monster if I didn't. But I should be a monster never before imagined by a disordered brain if I found any pleasure in having her here to look after me when she ought to be living her life in fulness. And that's the very end of the matter. I speak selfishly. I can't help it. I have a great longing for joy around me once more. Go upstairs and settle everything finally between you.” When they had gone, he sighed. “Yes,” he said to himself, “a great longing for joy--and the sound of the steps of little children.” Then he laughed, calling himself a fool, and went on with his painting. A day or two afterwards Connie Deering, who had been a frequent visitor since Norma's flight, walked into the studio while Jimmie was working. “Don't let me disturb you. Please go on,” she cried in her bright, airy way. “If you don't, I'll disappear. I've only come for a gossip.” Jimmie drew a chair near the easel and resumed his brush. She congratulated him on the picture. It was shaping beautifully. She had been talking about it last night to Lord Hyston, who had promised to call at the studio to inspect it. Lord Hyston was a well-known buyer of modern work. “He is stocking a castle in Wales, which he never goes near, with acres of paint,” she said encouragingly. “So I don't see why you should n't have a look in.” “Is there a family ghost in the castle?” “I believe there are two!” “That's a blessing,” said Jimmie. “Some one, at any rate, will look at the pictures.”