most nights of his life. But I did rather wonder that he chose to indulge in the

pastime in King’s Abbot instead of in the gay metropolis.

 

“One of the barmaids?” I asked.

 

“No. That’s just it. He went out to meet her. I don’t know who she is.”

 

(Bitter for Caroline to have to admit such a thing.)

 

“But I can guess,” continued my indefatigable sister.

 

I waited patiently.

 

“His cousin.”

 

“Flora Ackroyd?” I exclaimed in surprise.

 

Flora Ackroyd is, of course, no relation whatever really to Ralph Paton, but

Ralph has been looked upon for so long as practically Ackroyd’s own son, that

cousinship is taken for granted.

 

“Flora Ackroyd,” said my sister.

 

“But why not go to Fernly if he wanted to see her?”