idle in her lap. In the high trees of the Park upon the far side of the road the owls were calling and the cuckoo still repeated his two notes from the tree beyond the field. Paul rose suddenly to his feet.

“That throaty old cuckoo means to make a night of it,” he said with a laugh which was meant to hide the break in his voice and did not succeed. He stepped over the threshold and was out of sight.

“Let him be!” said Colonel Vanderfelt. And a little later, when Phyllis had taken herself off to bed: “I liked him very much. The right temper—that’s the phrase old Ferguson used. He’ll do well, Milly—you’ll see. We shall see him home here one day carrying his sheaves,” and as his wife remained silent he looked at her anxiously. “Don’t you agree with me?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Vanderfelt answered slowly. “I hope so with all my heart. But—didn’t you notice his looks and a sort of grace he has?”

“Well?” asked the Colonel.

“Well, we have left out one consideration altogether. What part are women going to play in his life? A large one. Tom, I have been watching Phyllis to-night. A day or so more, and we should have an aching heart in this house.”

“Yes, I see,” returned Colonel Vanderfelt. “Women do upset things, don’t they?”

“Or get upset,” said Mrs. Vanderfelt. “And sometimes both.”

CHAPTER IV

Betwixt and Between

Paul Ravenel left Colonel Vanderfelt’s house of King’s Corner on the next morning in time to catch an early train to London. His friends gathered in the drive to wave him a good-bye as he drove away.

Paul Ravenel

P

“You’ll write to us, won’t you?” said Mrs. Vanderfelt.

“And there’s a room here whenever you have an evening to spare,” added the Colonel.

Paul had quite captured the hearts of the small household and they were hardly less concerned for his future and his success than they would have been had he been their own son.

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