stalwart burden-bearer coming down. A servant had opened the door and the late burden was passing into the hall.
He peered sharply into the face of the man who was leaving, and recognized him.
"Hello," he said. "Some one ill, Trotter?"
"No, Mr. Smith-Parvis," replied Trotter in some confusion. "Disagreeable night, isn't it?"
"In some respects," said young Mr. Smith-Parvis, and dashed into the vestibule before the footman could close the door.
Miss Emsdale turned at the foot of the broad stairway as she heard the servant greet the young master. A swift flush mounted to her cheeks. Her heart beat a little faster, notwithstanding the fact that it had been beating with unusual rapidity ever since Thomas Trotter disregarded her protests and picked her up in his strong arms.
"Hello," he said, lowering his voice.
There was a light in the library beyond. His father was there, taking advantage, no doubt, of the midnight lull to read the evening newspapers. The social activities of the Smith-Parvises gave him but little opportunity to read the evening papers prior to the appearance of the morning papers.
"What is the bally rush?" went on the young man, slipping out of his fur-lined overcoat and leaving it pendant in the hands of the footman. Miss Emsdale, after responding to his hushed "hello" in an equally subdued tone, had started up the stairs.
"It is very late, Mr. Smith-Parvis. Good night."
"Never too late to mend," he said, and was su-
