To-day he had the house to himself. The corn-dealers shop was
closed, as on a Sunday; the optician and his blind wife had locked
up their rooms and were spending Easter-tide, it might be hoped,
amid more cheerful surroundings. Hilliard sat with his door open,
that he might easily hear the knock which announced his guests at
the entrance below.

It sounded, at length, but timidly. Had he not been listening, he
would not have perceived it. Eve's handling of the knocker was
firmer than that, and in a different rhythm. Apprehensive of
disappointment, he hurried downstairs and opened the door to Patty
Ringrose--Patty alone.

With a shy but pleased laugh, her cheeks warm and her eyes bright,
she jerked out her hand to him as in the old days.

"I know you won't be glad to see me. I'm so sorry. I said I had
better not come."

"Of course I am glad to see you. But where's Eve?"

"It's so unfortunate--she has such a bad headache!" panted the
girl. "She couldn't possibly come, and I wanted to stay with her, I
said. I should only disappoint you."

"It's a pity, of course; but I'm glad you came, for all that."
Hilliard stifled his dissatisfaction and misgivings. "You'll think
this a queer sort of place. I'm quite alone here to-day. But after