upon what we thought was a happy and innocent plan to avoid the long separation.  I decided to go to Europe also, and without you or your other nieces suspecting, my identity, attach myself to your party and enjoy the society of Louise while she remained abroad.  So I followed you on the next ship and met you at Sorrento, where I introduced myself as Count Ferralti—­a name we had agreed I should assume before we parted in America.

“The rest of my story you know.  My father was killed in an accident on his own railroad, and I received the news while we were prisoners of the brigand, whom I discovered to be my uncle, but who had no mercy upon me because of the relationship.  To-night, on my return here, I found a letter from my father’s attorney, forwarded from my bankers in Paris.  Through my father’s sudden death I have inherited all his wealth, as he had no time to alter his will.  Therefore Mrs. Merrick’s objection to me is now removed, and Louise has never cared whether I had a penny or not.”

He halted, as if not knowing what more to say, and the little group of listeners remained quiet because it seemed that no remark from them was necessary.  Young Weldon, however, was ill at ease, and after hitching nervously in his chair he addressed Uncle John in these words: 

“Sir, you are the young lady’s guardian for the present, as she is in your charge.  I therefore ask your consent to our formal engagement.”

“Not any,” said Uncle John, decidedly.  “I’ll sanction no engagement of any children on this trip.  You are wrong in supposing I am Louise’s guardian—­I’m just her chum and uncle.  It’s like cradle-snatching to want to marry a girl of sixteen, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, for you can’t be much more than twenty-one yourself.  While Louise is in my care I won’t have any entanglements of any sort, so you’ll have to wait till you get home and settle the business with her mother.”

“Very wise and proper, sir,” said Mr. Watson, nodding gravely.

Louise’s cheeks were flaming.

“Do you intend to drive Arthur away, Uncle?” she asked.

“Why should I, my dear? except that you’ve both taken me for a blind old idiot and tried to deceive me.  Let the boy stay with us, if he wants to, but he’ll have to cut out all love-making and double-dealing from this time on—­or I’ll take you home in double-quick time.”

The young man seemed to resent the indictment.

“The deception seemed necessary at the time, sir,” he said, “and you must not forget the old adage that ‘all’s fair in love and war.’  But I beg that you will forgive us both and overlook our fault, if fault it was.  Hereafter it is our desire to be perfectly frank with you in all things.”

That was a good way to disarm Uncle John’s anger, and the result was immediately apparent.

“Very good,” said the old gentleman; “if you are proper and obedient children I’ve no objection to your being together.  I rather like you, Arthur Weldon, and most of your failings are due to the foolishness of youth.  But you’ve got to acquire dignity now, for you have suddenly become a man of consequence in the world.  Don’t think you’ve got to marry every girl that attracts you by her pretty face.  This devotion to Louise may be ‘puppy-love,’ after all, and—­”