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a Murray would delight to honour. But he doesn’t happen to be the type I fancy, that’s all.”

Could this be Emily—this tall young woman coolly giving her reasons for refusing an offer of marriage—and talking about the “types” she fancied? Elizabeth—Laura—even Ruth looked at her as if they had never seen her before. And there was a new respect in their eyes. Of course they knew that Andrew was—was—well, in short, that Andrew was. But years must doubtless pass before Andrew would—would—well, would! And now the thing had happened already with another suitor—happened “half a dozen times” mark you! At that moment, although they were quite unconscious of it, they ceased to regard her as a child. At a bound she had entered their world and must henceforth be met on equal terms. There could be no more family courts. They felt this, though they did not perceive it. Aunt Ruth’s next remark showed it. She spoke almost as she might have spoken to Laura or Elizabeth, if she had deemed it her duty to admonish them.

“Just suppose, Em’ly, if any one passing had seen Perry Miler sitting in that window at that hour of the night?”

“Yes, of course. I see your angle of it perfectly, Aunt Ruth. All I want is to get you to see mine. I was foolish to open the window and talk to Perry—I see that now. I simply didn’t think—and then I got so interested in the story of his mishaps at Dr. Hardy’s dinner that I forgot how time was going.”’

“Was Perry Miller to dinner at Dr. Hardy's?” asked Aunt Elizabeth. This was another staggerer for her. The world—the Murray world—must be literally turned upside-down if Stovepipe Town was invited to dinner on Queen Street. At the same moment Aunt Ruth remembered with a pang of horror that Perry Miller had seen her in her pink flannel nightgown. It hadn’t mattered before—he had been only the help-boy at New Moon. Now he was Dr. Hardy’s guest.