stood before the mirror, the little gold stud brought up a picture of another,—one of plain bone, in the band of a shirt always greasy and collarless. And above that band, the bleary green eyes and foul whiskers of a wicked old man. Over his shoulders he could see the face blinking at him in the mirror, as the saw mouth jeered,—
"May God have mercy on yer soul!"
It wasn't exactly a pleasant recalling of that night at the wharf, the fight, the foul blow. Whether the latter had been fatal or not there had been no means of determining.
Just before the figure dissolved from the glass, it stuck one finger down between the band and the neck, and ran it round with a peculiarly significant gesture.
So real it was that Master Phil hurled his shaving mug at the apparition, shattering the mirror beyond repair. Agatha, passing the doorway just then, threw up her hands.
"Lord forgive us!" she mumbled, "there'll be no luck in that match!"
But the "chug, chug" of the motor sounded outside, with the pleasant and reassuring purr of prosperity, and the voice of his father followed—jovial, almost too resolutely jovial.
"Hurry, my boy, never keep a girl waiting on a night like this."
It was perplexing that the old gentleman didn't sound out the boy about this mystery, but he himself was feverishly grasping at the hope that the wedding would prove the ending of this and many other problems that had been troubling him ever since Philip's unique adolescence began.
With fingers still trembling, the groom finished dressing,
