himself a half-forgotten conversation with Mrs. Hunter on the subject of that will which she could never bring up her mind to make. If he could but have made her act with decision and good sense, divide the property between the two young people, and dismiss forever that fiction which seemed to have taken possession of Oliver Hunter's mind that his estate ought to continue intact, and that, like the heirs of Aragon and Castile, his nephew and his wife's niece should consolidate their claims!
"That's the devilish mischief of it," Mr. Beekman said to himself. "A man is not content with having his money in this life, he wants to go on taking care of it after he is dead."
These reflections, natural and inevitable in the mind of a family lawyer, were suddenly dispelled by the sound of a laugh, which he unmistakably recognized as Ethel Fairlie's. Turning, he saw the three young people coming down the slope, and, looking, lost himself in wonder. He had heard Ethel's voice distinctly. She was saying, "There, Ollie, put it down. No, not there, about twenty feet to the right. Do you call that the right? Then I mean to the left. There now, see if it composes well. Does it take in a bit of the view?"
All this thrilled along the garden walks, along with bird-notes and other summer sounds. There was Oliver, his head inside the curtain of the camera. There was Clara Frost looking on in surprise. But where was Ethel? The voice was Ethel's, the ripple of soft laughter was Ethel's, but Mr. Beekman gazed stupefied at the figure from which the voice proceeded.
"Now," she said, "I will go and take my stand by the arbor."
As she said this she came flying down the garden path. Not to give her too great a shock of surprise, Mr. Beekman slipped behind a clump of syringas and waited. Then as she faced around at the door of the arbor he said in his driest manner, "How do you do, Miss Fairlie?"
She stopped short, as if spellbound, but after a moment of some intensity held out her hand. What she said was uttered in her lowest voice. "I beg of you to be my friend, Mr. Beekman. Stand by me." Then aloud: "They are taking my picture, and I am to pose against the rose arbor."
Mr. Beekman effaced himself while the picture was in progress. The moment the slide was down, Ethel gave Oliver what was perhaps a not wholly unwelcome signal of release. Here was Mr. Beekman, she said, to whom she loused to talk, and with whom she must talk, and Oliver and Miss Frost might indulge themselves as they chose by taking pictures of each other. Having thus cleared up the situation, Ethel turned to Mr. Beekman. He meanwhile had been taking in all the bizarre features of the extraordinary change he saw in the girl. Her hair drawn off her face, frizzled, and then braided, seemed to him
