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 The tone of playfulness was almost silly. But she was not deceived, for striking through it was the oiliness of Uncle Si. And she knew that she had only to glance at that face shining pale under the lamp, which was a thing she dare not do, to carry the resemblance farther.

"Tell me," he repeated softly.

A sense of destiny seemed to weigh her down.

"It has been given to me." Her voice was hardly audible.

"Given to you." He smiled a little, as his mind went off in search of the half forgotten fragments of their talk two days ago. "Let me see—your best boy, wasn't it?—who made you a present of a picture—by a well known R. A.?"

June did not know how to answer, yet she was able to realize that an answer of some kind was imperative.

"That's it," she said. There was nothing else she could say.

"I rather like this thing, do you know." His voice was acquiring a sort of growing brightness which seemed quite to admit her to his confidence. "It might almost have been painted by the snuffy old Scotsman—one MacFarlane by name—who first shewed me how to draw. It's just in his manner. By Jove!"—The voice of Adolph Keller seemed to glow with humour—"I can almost see that cantankerous whiskyfied old fool daubing that water and those trees. But in his day not a bad painter, you know, not a bad painter." And the voice of the pupil tailed off in a note of reluctant affection of which he seemed half ashamed.

It was June's turn to say something, but her frozen lips could not utter.