“I never take anything,” said Burnett; “I consider it more blessed to give than to receive—as regards good advice anyhow.” 

 “Who will I have for dinner?” Jack asked presently, glancing around to see if there were any silver tissues or distracting curls in sight. 

 “Well,” his friend replied, rather hesitatingly, “you must expect to balance up for last night, I reckon.” 

 “Your cousin, I suppose!” 

 Burnett nodded. 

 “She wanted you,” he said. “She’s taken a fancy to you; and she can afford to marry for love,” he added. 

 “I’m thankful that I can, too,” the other answered fervently. 

 His friend laughed at the fervor. 

 “You make me think of her teacher,” he said. “She sings, and when she was sixteen she meant to outrank Patti; she was lots homelier then.” 

 “Oh, I say!” Jack cried. “I can believe ’most anything, but—” 

 Burnett laughed and then sobered. 

 “She was,” he said solemnly; “she really and truly was. And her mother said to her teacher,—there in Dresden: ‘She will be the greatest soprano, won’t she?’ And he said: ‘Madame, she has only that one chance—to be the greatest.’” 

 Jack laughed. 

 “But why ‘Lorne’?” he asked suddenly. “Why not ‘Burnett,’ since she’s your uncle’s child?” 

 “Oh, that’s straight enough; there’s a hyphen there. My uncle died and my aunt married a title. My aunt’s Lady Chiheleywicks, but the family name is Lorne. And you pronounce my aunt’s name Chix.” 

 “I’m glad I know,” said Jack. 

 “Oh, we’re great on titles,” said Burnett, modestly. “If the Boers hadn’t killed Col. Rosscott, Betty would have been a Lady, too, some day. But as it is—” he added thoughtfully, “she’s nothing but a widow.” 

 “‘Nothing but’!” Jack cried indignantly. 

 “Oh, well,” said Burnett, “of course it’s great, her being a widow—but then she’d have been great the other way too.” 

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