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Every Sunday, as Eustace Daintree passes from his place at the reading-desk up to the altar to read the Communion Service, there falls upon it a streak of sunshine from the painted window above, which he himself and his wife had put up to her memory, lighting up the pale marble image with a chequered glory of gold and crimson.

He says that only for that photo he'd have given in and just died. I daresay he wouldn't really, but he thinks he would. Anyhow, he didn't He stuck it out and his leg didn't hurt nearly as much as he expected. He attributes that to the influence of this this " "Angel visitant?" I said. "You can call her an angel if you like," said Daintree. "This," I said, "seems to me a pure sob story.

And any way I particularly wanted to talk to you. I've got a story to tell you." We secured a corner and two comfortable chairs. I lit a pipe and waited. Daintree is a wonderful man for picking up stories. The most unusual things happen to him and he gets mixed up in far more adventures than anyone else I know. And he likes telling stories.

"I suggested that," said Daintree, "but my wife simply won't hear of it. She says the story as it stands is a great romance and that it would be utterly spoiled if Simcox switched off after another girl. I can't see that, can you?" "In a case like this," I said, "when the original girl wasn't a girl at all "

"All right," I said, "but Pat Singleton's escapades always amuse me. I'd like to hear about his making an apple-pie bed for that nurse." Daintree chuckled again, and I gathered from the expression of his face that the nurse had endured something worse than an apple-pie bed. "Or about the boat-races," I said. "I didn't know you had anything which floated on that lake of yours."

"Aunt Vera can make nosegays of berries boofully, grandma," interpolates Tommy, earnestly; "can't she, Minnie?" "Yes, she do," assented the smaller child, with emphasis. "I wasn't speaking to you, Tom; little boys should be " "Heard and not seen," puts in Tommy, rapidly; "you always say that, grandma." Vera laughs softly. Mrs. Daintree goes on with her lecture.

"Good looking girl?" "Very. Large eyes sort of tender, you know, and appealing; and a gentle, innocent face, and a mouth " "I suppose," I said, "that these raptures are necessary if I'm to understand the story. Otherwise, you may skip them." "Can't possibly skip them," said Daintree. "The whole point of the story depends on your realizing the sort of girl she was. Pathetic that's the word I want.

Daintree a daughter so old as that?" "Oh, law! no, Sir John. It is Mrs. Daintree's sister. She came from abroad to live with them last year. A very nice young lady, Sir John, is Miss Nevill, and seems lonely like, and it kind of cheers her up to come and see me and walk in the garden. I am sure I hope you won't take it amiss that I should have allowed her to come."

"The chances were, of course," said Daintree, "that she was some other fellow's girl, possibly some other fellow's wife. But Simcox didn't care. He was too far gone to care for anything except to get that girl. Those morose, shy men are frightfully hard hit in that sort of way, I'm told. That's what my wife says, anyhow. They get it much worse than we do when they do get it.

Usually, the men who have stories to tell will not talk, and the men who like talking have nothing interesting to tell. Daintree is exceptional. "What is it this time?" I asked. "What journalists call a 'sob story, or is it meant to be humorous?" "I should call it a kind of joke," said Daintree; "but my wife says it's the most pathetic thing she's ever heard.