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her to stay. It was no use shutting her eyes to the facts of the case—the plain truth was that the absurd child had fallen very much in love with her. Well, she did love to be loved, there was no doubt about that, but her mind was filled with very conflicting emotions—delight at the completeness of her victory—dismay at the form it had taken. Yes, she was much more annoyed than pleased. She did want something she could pet and play with to her heart’s content—little brother or big baby, it didn’t matter which—and now all her plans were thwarted by this silly child of fifteen. How provoking and uncertain men were, even from the time when they weren’t men at all, but the merest children!

“Yes, Mrs. Bowen, he is still with us, and ever so much better, thank you. We’ve put him out on the balcony to-day.”

“I never heard of such a pair of philanthropists as you and Professor Straine,” declared Mrs. Bowen; “you’ve positively adopted the boy, I hear.”

“Not quite, though indeed we should be very glad to, we’ve both grown so fond of him. . . . Good-bye, Mrs. Wallace. No, I must get back. Winthrop will be home at six, and there’s my small invalid to be attended to.”

Alison made her farewells, and walked home, stopping on the way at a bookshop. No poetry for Tony to-day, however; she turned with great deliberation to the boys’ books Tony must remember that he was only a boy still. She came back armed with Treasure Island and Kidnapped, and left them with him on her way up to dress.

Tony read as long as the light lasted, then, too lazy to stretch out his hand to the electric light, he lay and thought over his book.

I like Alan Breck, but I don’t think I can be a bit Scotch—I feel so different to David Balfour.” A sudden suspicion leapt out. “She has never given me books of