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Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. "How have you contrived to still these troubled waters?" "I've chanced upon an old ally in the Master of the Mint," answered Rowland. “I was already aware of the fact. We dressed it in a little music. Terrific yells rent the air. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. I cannot go on. "Away with him!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, impatiently. Never was there another girl like this one. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her.

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