I felt, when I waked up on the morning of butter-market-day at Middelburg, as if I had not slept at all, but had listened throughout the night to the sweet, the incredibly sweet chimes that floated like perfume in the air. Yet I suppose I must have slept, for the bells had sometimes stopped playing their one melodious tune, to tinkle in my dreams, "One for you, and one for you, but never, never one for me?"

The hotel is a nice hotel, and there is a garden. After breakfast, I was so tired of brotherliness, of beaming at happy couples, and hearing plans about weddings, that instead of going forth to see the famous Thursday Middelburg sights, at which the world comes from afar to gaze, I slipped away and hid in the garden.

Phyllis and Robert were out together. Rudolph and Nell were out together. Both parties conscientiously believed that they were out for sight-seeing; that their object was to behold matrons and maidens in white caps, quaint fichus, meek, straight bodices, and swelling skirts; to admire pretty faces, with tinkling gold ornaments at their temples; to stare at young arms, red under incredibly tight short sleeves, as they bore baskets of eggs or pats of butter to market. How well I knew the whole scene from photographs!—the bell-like figures of the women; the booths in the big market square; and the cool arcades of the butter-market. How well I knew, too, that neither Phyllis and Robert, nor Rudolph and Nell would see anything at all, or remember it, if by accident they did see aught save each other.

"This," I said to myself, "is the end. We may go back to Rotterdam together, if we like. But everything's as much changed as if it were another party. And this, this is what I've slaved for—fibbed for—plotted for! 'Giving agreeable girls away!' Faugh!" I felt as much injured as if I were a misunderstood saint, though, when one comes to look at it, perhaps I have not always played precisely the part of saint.

While I lolled gloomily on an extremely uncomfortable seat, not meant for lolling, I heard a faint rustling in the grass behind me, and Tibe appeared, to lay his head, in a matter-of-course way, upon my knee.

"Where's your mistress?" I asked mechanically. "Have you changed, too, like all the rest, and left her alone?"

"Here I am," answered the L.C.P., as if the question had been addressed to her. "I thought you'd be in the garden, so I came to find you. Why don't you go out and see things?"

"Why don't you?" I echoed.

"Because I didn't like to feel that you were all by yourself," she answered.

"You needn't have troubled about me," I said. "Nobody else does."

She laughed that quaint, quiet little laugh, which suits her. "That's different. They're engaged to each other—all the rest of them. I'm engaged—by you."

"Don't let that engagement keep you from amusing yourself," I said. "The bargain's off now. I hired an aunt to further my interests. Every one else's have been furthered except mine."

"That's not my fault, is it?"

"I know it isn't," I assured her. "Don't think I'm finding fault with you. On the contrary, you're really a marvelous being. But Othello's occupation's gone."

"Yes," said she. "For both of us. I retire from aunthood, you retire from nephewhood, with mutual respect, Is that it?"

"I suppose so," I gloomily replied. "Yet I'm loth to part with you, somehow. You and Tibe are all I have left in the world. But now I must lose you both."

"You don't need an aunt," she said.

"No, but I need some one; I don't know exactly who. Robert has snatched one of my loves, Rudolph the other. What am I to do?"

"Come to the house and into my sitting-room, and let's talk it over," she suggested invitingly.

I obeyed.

There were flowers in her sitting-room. There always are. The scent of late roses was sad, yet soothing.

"Excuse me a minute. I'm going into the next room to make myself pretty before we begin our talk; but I won't be long, and Tibe shall keep you company," said the L.C.P.

"You're well enough as you are," I said.

But she went, smiling; and I hardly missed her, I was so busy with my own thoughts.

One for you, and one for you, but never, never one for me?

I must have hummed the words aloud, for her voice answered me, at the door.

"Never's a long word, isn't it?"

I looked up.

A neat little figure stood on the threshold between the two rooms, the same neat little figure I had seen constantly during the past eight weeks. But it was not the same face. She had said, lightly, that she was going to "make herself pretty," and she had. She had performed a miracle. Or else I was asleep and dreaming.

The gray hair, folded in wings, was gone; the blue glasses were gone; the big bow under the chin was gone. A pretty young woman was smiling at me with the pretty little mouth I knew; but I did not know the bright auburn hair, or the beautiful brown eyes that threw me an amazing challenge.

"Good heavens!" I exclaimed.

"You told me you didn't want your aunt any more," said she.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"Don't you remember? I'm Mary Milton. If you'd lived in your own country, instead of gadding about in foreign ones, you'd know who Mary Milton is without asking—at least, you would if you ever read The New York Meteor."

"I suppose this is a dream, and that I shall wake up," said I. "I slept very badly last night."

"Don't call for help under the impression that it's a nightmare," said my late aunt, twinkling.

"I have the impression that it's a vision," I answered. "But if you don't explain yourself instantly, I shall die in the dream—of heart failure."

"There's no great mystery," said Miss Milton. "I didn't particularly want to disguise myself, but you advertised for an aunt, and as it's difficult for a girl to make herself look middle-aged, I had to look old. That's all, except that your advertisement came in very handy, because—as you'd know if you were a patriotic American—Mary Milton's an enterprising and rather celebrated young journalist making it her business to go round the world for her paper without spending a penny of her own. That was the understanding on which The Meteor started and 'boomed' me; for it was my own idea. I wanted to see things, and I hadn't money enough—so I went to call on the editor, and—I talked to him, till he was quite fired with the project. The Meteor has given me a good send-off, and I've given it good copy. My adventures—as they look in print—have been sensational, and, I believe, popular. I've been at it for two years, and all America has read me, if you haven't. I've done all the countries of Europe, now. Holland was the last, and I seemed stuck on the threshold till I saw your advertisement. It couldn't have suited better—except for the blue glasses and the wig. But one can't have everything as one likes it. I've enjoyed the tour immensely, thanks to you; and so have the readers of The Meteor. I'm afraid I've teased you a good deal, and spent a lot of your pennies; but it was fun! And you shall have your presents all back—every one of them. Heaps of money will be waiting for me from my paper when I get home to New York. They're delighted with my work; and then I intend to send you a check for all that you've paid me to be your aunt. I would rather, really; and only keep one little thing to remember you by, perhaps—and our days together."

"Did you always send back the money spent by persons you hypnotized to conduct you through the different countries?"

"No. That was different. I—don't exactly know why, but it was. And you needn't look at me so queerly. I've never done anything to be ashamed of."

"I'd knock the person down who suggested that you had," said I. "I was looking at you because I was thinking you more marvelous than ever. You hypnotize me. You hypnotize everybody. I suppose you hypnotized the editor into giving you your job?"

"Perhaps I did," she laughed. "Often I can get people to do things for me—big things—if I want them to very much."

"You could get me to do anything!" I exclaimed. "You're a witch, and what's more, I believe you're a beauty. Great Scott! How you grow on one! Can this be why—because you are You—that in my heart of hearts I don't care a rap if Nell and Phyllis are engaged to others? I wonder if my instinct saw under the gray hair and blue glasses? Look here, are you Miss or Mrs. Mary Milton? and if you're Mrs., are you a widow, grass, or otherwise?"

She laughed. "Why, how old do you take me to be? As an aunt, my official age was over forty. But Miss Mary Milton isn't much more than half Lady MacNairne's age. It's as good to throw off the years as the wig and the spectacles. I'm only twenty-three. I haven't had time to marry yet, thank goodness!"

"Thank goodness!" I echoed. "And thank goodness for You as you are. You seem to me perfect."

"But I should never have done like this, for an aunt."

"Certainly not. But to think I should have been wasting you all this time as a mere aunt!"

"I wasn't wasted. I saved you lots of things—if I didn't save you money. Really, I did earn my salary—though you often thought me officious."

"Never!"

"Not when I kept you from proposing to Nell Van Buren?"

"That was a blessing in disguise."

"Like myself. But truly, I only did it to spare you humiliation in the end. I knew all along that she was in love with Rudolph Brederode—though perhaps she wouldn't have found it out so soon if it hadn't been for me."

"You've been our good genius all round," said I. "And I owe you——"

"Now, don't offer me more rewards! It was fun wheedling things from you at first; but bribes have been getting on my nerves lately. The play was played out."

"Let's pretend it was only a curtain-raiser," I suggested. "I'd like you to be 'on' in the next piece, in the leading part. Mary Milton! What a delicious name! And you're delicious! It's a great comfort to understand why I was never really in love with either of those Angels. You are not an angel—but I'm going to be madly in love with you. I feel it coming on. I shall adore you."

"Nonsense! A man mustn't be in love with his aunt."

"I strip you of your aunthood. But I can't give you up to The Meteor. If you go to America, you must personally conduct Ronald Lester Starr. You oughtn't to mind. You're used to looking after him."

I took a step toward her; but she stooped down and framed the ugly pansy of Tibe's face between her little hands.

"Tibe, what do you say to him?" she asked.

Tibe wagged his tail.

While he was wagging, the others came in. Their looks of radiant new happiness changed to surprise at sight of my companion. In spite of the dress nobody recognized the pretty girl with the wonderful eyes and crisp masses of sparkling auburn hair.

Yesterday I would have sacrificed anything, up to Tibe himself, to avoid explanations, but now I enjoyed them.

Everybody laughed and exclaimed (except Robert), and Brederode helped me out so nobly that I would have given him Nell with my own hand if she had not already made him that present.

"It's like one of Nell's stories," cried Phyllis. "Only she used to love to make hers end sadly."

"I should have died if this had ended sadly," Nell said frankly, holding out both hands to Brederode, with a lovely look in her eyes.

"So should I, I'm sure," said Phyllis. "Oh, isn't it glorious that we all adore each other so!"

"Do we?" I asked the Meteor lady.

She smiled. "I suppose it would be a pity to make a jarring note in the chorus."

While she was in that mood I took out the ruby ring which she had said ought to be an engagement ring.

"With this ring I thee——"

"No!"

"Engage thee as my perpetual chaperon."

This time she did not draw back her hand. And I kissed it as I slipped on the ruby.

THE END