Mr. Bill started and cast a frightened glance across the table. Thirty
years are not as a day, and, after all, his emotion had been hardly more
than he would have felt for a prize perch that had wriggled from his line
into the stream. The perch, indeed, would have represented more
appropriately the passion of his life--though a lukewarm lover, he was an
ardent angler.

"Ah, Brother Bill understands us," cheerfully interposed the Governor. His
keen eyes had noted Mr. Bill's alarm as they noted the emptiness of Miss
Pussy's cup. "By the way, Julia," he went on with a change of the subject,
"Major Lightfoot found Betty in the road and brought her home. The little
rogue had run away."

Mrs. Ambler filled Miss Pussy's cup and pressed Mr. Bill to take a slice of
Sally Lunn. "The Major is so broken that it saddens me," she said, when
these offices of hostess were accomplished. "He has never been himself
since his daughter ran away, and that was--dear me, why that was twelve
years ago next Christmas. It was on Christmas Eve, you remember, he came to
tell us. The house was dressed in evergreens, and Uncle Patrick was making
punch."

"Poor Patrick was a hard drinker," sighed Miss Lydia; "but he was a citizen
of the world, my dear."

"Yes, yes, I perfectly recall the evening," said the Governor,
thoughtfully. "The young people were just forming for a reel and you and I
were of them, my dear,--it was the year, I remember, that the mistletoe was
brought home in a cart,--when the door opened and in came the Major. 'Jane
has run away with that dirty scamp Montjoy,' he said, and was out again and