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 of liquid—a bright golden liquid that seemed to hold the sunshine a prisoner in its auriferous depths.

Con smelled it. He tasted it. He drank it.

As he returned through the hall Katherine was just going up the stairs.

“No news yet, Mr. Lantry?” she asked with her teasing laugh.

Con lifted her clear from the floor and held her there.

“The news is,’’ he said, “that we’re to be married.”

“Put me down, sir!” she cried indignantly, “or I will— Oh, Con, where, oh, wherever did you get the nerve to say it?”