Without, the night was cold and wet. But in the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlor of LeBurnum Villa.

The blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess. The former,

who possessed ideas about the game involving radical chances,

putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the

white-haired old lady knitted placidly by the fire.

"'Hark at the wind,' said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late,

was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.

I'm listening, said the latter grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand.

Check.

I should hardly think that he's come tonight,

said his father, with his hand poised over the board. Mate, replied the son. That's the worst of living so far out, bald Mr. White. With sudden and unlooked-for violence.

Of all the beastly, slushy out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst.

Paths a bog and the road's a torrent.

I don't know what people are thinking about.

I suppose because only two houses in the road are left, they think it doesn't matter.

Never mind, dear, said his wife soothingly.

Perhaps you'll win the next one.

Mr. White looked up sharply just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son.

The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin gray beard.

There he is, said Herbert White, as the gate banged too loudly and heavy footsteps came toward

the door.

The old man rose with hospitable haste, and, opening the door, was heard condoling with the

...