In one dark corner stood an ancient harp; then there was the spinning-wheel,--itself a curiosity fit for a museum,--testifying dumbly of the mistress of all these surroundings, and on the floor there was something else,--something that both the young men were strongly inclined to take possession of.

It was only a bunch of tiny meadow daisies, fastened together with a bit of blue silk.

It had fallen,--they guessed by whom it had been worn,--but neither made any remark, and both, by some strange instinct, avoided looking at it, as though the innocent little blossoms carried within them some terrible temptation.
They were conscious of a certain embarrassment, and making an effort to break through it, Lorimer remarked softly-- "By Jove, Phil, if this old Gueldmar really knew what you are up to, I believe he would bundle you out of this place like a tramp! Didn't you feel a sneak when he said we had told the truth like men ?" Philip smiled dreamily.

He was seated in one of the quaintly carved chairs, half absorbed in what was evidently a pleasing reverie.
"No; not exactly," he replied.

"Because we _did_ tell him the truth; we did want to know him, and he's worth knowing too! He is a magnificent-looking fellow; don't you think so ?" "Rather!" assented Lorimer, with emphasis.