twelve, then she'll say `Oh, my grief and
conscience--midnight!' But the next minute she'll
remember that it's only half-past eleven, after
all, and she'll send Rosa to bed and sit patting
Billy's slipper in her lap till it really is midnight
by all the other clocks.''

Cyril laughed appreciatively.

``Well, I know what Will is doing,'' he declared.

``Will is in Bertram's den dozing before the
fireplace with Spunkie curled up in his lap.''

As it happened, both these surmises were not
far from right. In the Strata, the Henshaws' old
Beacon Street home, William was sitting before
the fireplace with the cat in his lap, but he was
not dozing. He was talking.

``Spunkie,'' he was saying, ``your master,
Bertram, got married to-day--and to Miss
Billy. He'll be bringing her home one of these
days--your new mistress. And such a mistress!
Never did cat or house have a better!

``Just think; for the first time in years this old
place is to know the touch of a woman's hand
--and that's what it hasn't known for almost
twenty years, except for those few short months