Again the curate paused, this time to wipe his lips with the napkin. Martin Luther opened his eyes and yawned, stretching his fore paws straight out in front of him, the very image of a sleepy sphinx. "Isn't that story finished yet?" he mewed, then raising himself slowly to his feet he stepped over the arm of An Petronia's chair and curled up to sleep in the curate's lap.
"Well, my dear?" queried Harriet impatiently.
"I say!" cried Lionel, "what about the light?"
"The light came from the well," replied the curate.
Then he related how, as he stared at the well, half expecting to see the Gray Lady rise slowly out of its depths, there appeared, instead, a human hand holding—"What do you think it was holding?" he asked looking at each in turn.
"A dagger, of course," laughed Kate.
"A golden key," came timidly from An Petronia.
"If it wasn't an umbrella, I give it up," said Lionel.
"Go on! Tell us!" urged Harriet.
Robert Baxter had just achieved a perfect smoke ring. He watched it soar upward and melt away, then questioned quietly. "A bottle of champagne?"