Magdalen had taken a long scarf from the hall-stand, and holding it toward him, said, “It’s cold this morning, and my teeth fairly chattered when I went out on the piazza for my run with old Rover. Please wear this round your throat, Mr. Irving. Let me put it on for you.” There was a soft light in her eyes and a look of tender interest in her face, and Roger bent his head before her and let her wind the warm scarf round his neck and throw the fringed ends over his shoulder. Roger was tall, and Magdalen stood on tiptoe, with her arms almost meeting round his neck as she adjusted the scarf behind, and her face came so near to his that he could feel her breath stir his hair just as her presence stirred the inmost depths of his heart, tempting him to take her in his arms and beg of her not to heed Frank’s suit, but listen first to him, who had the better right to her. But Roger was a prudent man; the hall was not the place for love-making, so he restrained himself, and only took one of Magdalen’s hands in his and held it while he thanked her for her thoughtfulness. “You are better than a physician, Magda. I don’t know what I should do without you. I hope you will never leave Millbank.” So much he did say, and his eyes had an earnest, pleading look in them, which haunted Magdalen all the morning, and made her very happy as she flitted about the house, or dashed off one brilliant piece after another upon her piano, which seemed almost to talk beneath her spirited touch. Meanwhile, Roger and Frank were alone in the office. The brisk wind which was blowing in the morning had brought on an April shower of sleet and rain, and there was not much prospect of visitors or clients. Roger sat by his desk, pretending to read, while Frank at his table was doing just what Roger had done the previous night, viz., writing Magdalen’s name on slips of paper, and adding to it once the name of Irving, just to see how it would look; and Roger, who got up for a book which was over Frank’s head, saw it, and smiled sadly as he remembered that he, too, had written “Magdalen Irving,” just as Frank was doing. There was a little mirror over the table, where Frank had placed it for his own use; for he was vain of his personal appearance, and his hair and collar and necktie needed frequent fixing. Into this mirror Roger glanced and then looked down upon his nephew, who at that moment seemed a boy compared with him. Frank’s light hair and skin, and whitish, silky mustache, gave him a very youthful appearance and made him look younger than he was, while Roger had grown old within the night. There were no gray hairs, it is true, among his luxuriant brown locks; but he was haggard and pale, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and he felt tired and worn and old,—too old to mate with Magdalen’s bright beauty. Frank was better suited to her in point of age, and Frank should have her if she preferred him. Roger reached this conclusion hastily, and then, by way