singing to the Colonel? Was she standing, as he was standing, at the
window, peering out into the wild night, and thinking,--and longing--?

"What's the matter with a little game of poker?" asked Sheeley,
lightly running a deck of cards up the length of his arm and reversing
them with a deftness that spoke of long familiarity.

"Great idea!" exclaimed Dillingham expansively. "Just pass that
bottle, will you? What's that, Morley? Haven't got time? What in
thunder's the matter with you to-night?"

Donald retorted, with great dignity, that nothing in thunder was the
matter with him, except that he wanted to get back to town.

"Better not start with it storming like this," urged Sheeley, as a
crash of thunder shook the windows. "It'll let up soon."

"Tell you what I'll do!" said Dillingham, putting an arm across
Donald's shoulder affectionately, and speaking a trifle unsteadily.
"If you'll play a couple of games I'll go home with you--You ought to
be willing to do that for a fellow that's going to be your uncle. I
mean your nephew."

"And you'll go the minute the rain lets up?"

"Yes, if you'll play with us."

Donald stood irresolute, watching Dillingham's thin, unsteady fingers
shuffle the cards. He must get him home somehow, for Margery's sake.
Dill never knew when to stop, he was good for the night unless