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whistling Tom Bowling.
The sea was as calm as a mill pond; Raeburn suggested an hour or
two on the water and Erica, who was fond of boating, gladly
assented. She had made up her ind not to speak to her father that
evening; he had a very hard day's work before him on the Sunday;
they must have these few hours in peace. She did not in the least
dread any subject coming up which might put her into difficulty,
for, on the rare days when her father allowed himself any
recreation, he entirely banished all controversial topics from his
mind. He asked no single question relating to the work or to
business of any kind, but gave himself up to the enjoyment of a
muchneeded rest and relaxation. He seemed in excellent spirits,
and Erica herself would have been rapturously happy if she had not
been haunted by the thought of the pain that awaited him. She knew
that this was the last evening she and her father should ever spend
together in the old perfect confidence; division the most painful
of all divisions lay before them.
The next day she was left to herself. She would not go to the old
graytowered church, though as an atheist she had gone to one or
two churches to look and listen, she felt that she could not
honorably go as a worshiper till she had spoken to her father. So
she wandered about on the shore, and in the restful quiet learned
more and grew stronger, and conquered the dread of the morrow. She
did not see her father again that day for he could not get back
from Helmstone till a late train, and she had promised not to sit
up for him.
The morning of her twentythird birthday was bright and sunshiny;
she had slept well, but awoke with the oppressive consciousness
that a terrible hard duty lay before her. When she came down there
was a serious look in her eyes which did not escape Raeburn's keen
observation. He was down before her, and had been out already, for
he had managed somehow to procure a lovely handful of red and white
roses and mignonette.
All good wishes for your birthday, and 'sweets to the sweet' as
some one remarked on a more funereal occasion, he said, stooping
to kiss her. Dear little son Eric, it is very jolly to have you
to myself for once. No disrespect to Aunt Jean and old Tom, but
two is company. What lovely flowers! exclaimed Erica.! How
good of you! Where did they come from?
I made love to old Nicolls, the florist, to let me gather these
myself; he was very anxious to make a gorgeous arrangement done up

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