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OMING up the avenue in the February dusk he could see the flash and shimmer of firelight through the naked windows of the library. There was something unearthly in those squares of pulsing light that fretted the shadowy façade, and lent to the whole an air of pasteboard unreality.

The scrunch beneath his feet of the wet gravel brought his sister to the doorstep.

"Herbert!" she cried, "oh, do come in and see it all. You've been such ages to-day—what were you doing?"

"Your messages," he said; "they delayed me. That stupid fellow at Billingham's had made a muddle over those window measurements for the blinds; I had to go over to the workshop and give the order personally."

Standing in the hall, he was surprised to hear his voice ring out into spaciousness.

"I never realised how big it was," he said with gratification. "Why, Cicely, you're