"Billy!" Theodora's voice was sharp with exclamation points.
"I know it."
"Where did it come from, at this day?"
"My box in the garret. I was up there, this afternoon, and I must have
left it open."
"And you've had it all this time?"
"Yes."
"You silly old boy!"
Her face had grown scarlet and her eyes were shining. Then she turned to
her mystified guest.
"Excuse this family by-play, Mr. Gilwyn; but that was a lock of hair I
cut off, in the early days of our acquaintance, and my husband has kept
it ever since. You see a small dog in the family is rather destructive to
sentiment."
When the carriage was announced, Theodora was upstairs, putting on her
hat. Mr. Gilwyn came down the stairs and marched straight to the
dining-room where Cicely, divested of her cap and encased in a gingham
apron, was busy clearing the table. In his hand was a book, and his face
had suddenly lost all its pomposity and grown genial and merry.
"I found this on the table in my room," he said without preface; "and it
isn't a very common name."
As he spoke, he opened to the flyleaf and pointed to the two lines
written there.
"Cicely Everard," it said; "with the love of Cousin Theodora."
"I've a daughter of my own," he added; and Theodora, when she came in
search of her guest, found the guest and the maid laughing uproariously.
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