Mr. Wayt's Wife's Sister. Marion Harland

was a society man, and might have been aware how unconventional was the offer. He palliated the solecism, in describing the incident at home, by saying that he saw in every elderly woman his mother, in a young one, his only sister.

      “Thank you! if you will be so kind”—accepting the proposal as simply as it had been made. “I could bring her in myself, but she does not like to have me do it here.”

      “I should think not, indeed! One of the best uses to which a man’s muscles can be put is to help the weak,” rejoined March heartily.

      A gleam crossed the unchildish visage of the cripple when he stooped to lift her. She recognized him, but offered no verbal remark then, or when he deposited the light burden in the chair set for her by a waiter more humane, or less driven than his testy comrade.

      “You are very good, and we are much obliged to you,” the guardian said, with a little bow of acknowledgment which he took as dismissal also, withdrawing to his own place.

      “Set the table for seven, please,” he heard her continue to the waiter, businesslike and quiet, “and reserve another seat at that table”—designating one remote from the larger—“for a gentleman who will come in by and by. There is a man, too, for whom I wish to order luncheon at the counter in that room. He can get a good meal and be comfortable there, I suppose?”

      “A traveling party of nine!” thought March, apparently intent upon the depths of his soup tureen. “With this girl as courier. Yet she mentioned two men!”

      The family filed in while he speculated. Twin boys of twelve or thirteen, dressed exactly alike in gray jackets and knickerbockers, except that the red-haired one wore a blue necktie and the brown-haired a scarlet; a pretty, blue-eyed girl of eight, and a toddler of two, led by a sweet-faced mother, with fair hair and faintly tinted complexion, of the china shepherdess school. The “courier,” assisted by the waiter, seated them all without bustle, before addressing an individual who had followed at a respectful distance and now hung aloof, chewing the brim of a brand-new straw hat.

      “Homer!” said the young lady gently and distinctly, as she might direct a child, “you will get your dinner in the next room. Come!”

      By shifting his position slightly, March could see her point the man to a stool and give orders for his refreshment. He was undersized, lean, and sandy haired, small of feature and loutish in carriage. His eyes had red rims, and blinked incessantly, as if excessively weak or purblind. When he began operations upon coffee and sandwiches, he gobbled voraciously, gnawing off mouthfuls like a greedy dog. His clothes were so distressingly ready-made, and accentuated his uncouthness so unmercifully, as to leave no doubt that the wearing of coat and vest was a novelty and an equivocal boon.

      “An odd fish!” commented March mentally. “Why should a civilized family haul him after them like a badly made kite tail? And they are not vulgarians, either!”

      His eyes strayed discreetly back to the table set for seven. The mistress of ceremonies sat at the head, and was studying the printed menu. It lay flat on the cloth that the crippled girl at her right might read it with her. Their heads were close together, and the gravity upon the countenance of the elder was reflected by the shrewd elfin face. Presently they began to whisper, the bare, thin finger of the younger of the two tracing the lines to the extreme right of the carte. It was plainly a question of comparative expense, March perceived with a pang of his kind heart. For he had been a boy himself, and the children were hungry.

      “Hurry up—won’t you, Hetty,” called the redheaded twin impatiently. “Give us the first thing you come to so long as it isn’t corned beef, pork and beans, or rice pudding. I’m starved!”

      “Me, too!” echoed his fellow.

      “You needn’t make mincemeat of your English on that account!” piped the crippled sister tartly. “It is no little matter to order just the right things for such a host. Mamma, you must have a cup of tea, I suppose?”

      The young lady interposed, writing while she talked:

      “Of course! And all of us will be the better for some good, hot soup. This is luncheon, not dinner, recollect. We only need something to stay our appetites until six o’clock,” she added, putting the paper in the waiter’s hand.

      She did not look like one who did things for effect, yet there was meaning in her manner of saying it. If she was obliged to cut her coat according to her cloth, she would just now make the scantiness of the pattern seem a matter of choice and carry out the seaming gallantly.

      “How much further have we to go?” queried eight-year-old, somewhat ruefully.

      Six o’clock was to her apprehension a long time ahead.

      “We are within half an hour of home. We might have been there by now, but we thought it better to wait over a train to rest and get rid of the dust we brought off the cars.”

      “And to let him get shaved and barbered and prinked up generally!” shrilled the cripple malevolently.

      “Hester!” The mother’s voice was heard for the first time.

      “Well, mamma?”

      “That is not respectful, my love. You are tired, I am afraid.”

      The shrewd face jerked fretfully, and the lips were opened for a retort, checked by a gloved hand laid upon the forward child’s. There was only a murmur, accompanied by a pettish shrug.

      March was ashamed of the impulse that made him steal a look at the tray bearing the result of the whispered consultation. Three tureens, each containing two generous portions of excellent English gravy soup with barley in it, a pot of tea, bread and milk for the baby and plenty of bread and butter were duly deposited upon the board.

      “I’ll take the rest of your order now,” said the waiter, civilly suggestive.

      “This is all. Thank you!” in a matter-of-course tone that was not resentfully positive.

      The “courier” understood herself, and having taken ground, how to hold it. This was luncheon. March caught himself speculating as to the dinner bill of fare.

      The spokeswoman may have been two-and-twenty. She was slightly above the middle height of healthy womanhood, had gray, serious eyes, with brown shadows in them when the lids drooped; well-formed lips that curled roguishly at the corners in smiling; a straight nose with mobile nostrils, and a firm chin. There was character in plenty in the face. Such free air and sunshine as falls into most girls’ lives might have made it beautiful. The pose of her head, the habitual gravity of eyes and mouth, the very carriage of the shoulders and her gait testified to the untimely sense of responsibility borne by this one. She was slight and straight; her gown of fawn-colored cloth fitted well, and a toque of the same material with no trimming, except a knot of velvet ribbon, was becoming; yet March, who designed his sister’s costumes, was quite certain that gown and hat were homemade and the product of the wearer’s skill. Both women were unmistakably gentle in breeding, and the children’s chatter, although sometimes pert, was not rude or boisterous.

      A man entered by the side door while the chatter was stilling under the supreme attraction of the savory luncheon, and, after a word to a waiter, took the chair which had been tilted, face downward, against the far table at the “courier’s” order. He was tall, and had an aquiline, intellectual cast of countenance. His hands—the artist had an appreciative eye for hands and fingers—were a student’s; his linen was irreproachable; his chin and cheeks were blue-shaven, and his black hair was cut straight across at the back, just clearing the collar of his coat, instead of being shingled.

      “A clergyman!” deduced Gilchrist, from the latter peculiarity. “That—not the white choker—is the trade-mark of the profession. Did barber or preacher establish the fashion?”

      After inspection of the menu, the newcomer ordered a repast which was sumptuous when compared with the frugal one course of the seven seated at the table in the middle of the room. He took no notice of them nor they of him. His mien was studiously