THAT night brought the first frost of the season
worth counting. In the morning, when Theron
came downstairs, his casual glance through the
window caught a desolate picture of blackened
dahlia stalks and shrivelled blooms. The gayety
and color of the garden were gone, and in their
place was shabby and dishevelled ruin. He flung
the sash up and leaned out. The nipping autumn
air was good to breathe. He looked about him,
surveying the havoc the frost had wrought among
the flowers, and smiled.

At breakfast he smiled again, -- a mirthless and
calculated smile. "I see that Brother Gorringe's
flowers have come to grief over night," he re-
marked.

Alice looked at him before she spoke, and saw
on his face a confirmation of the hostile hint in
his voice. She nodded in a constrained way, and
said nothing.

"Or rather, I should say," Theron went on,
with deliberate words, "the late Brother Gorringe's
flowers."

"How do you mean -- late?" asked his wife,
swiftly.

-422-