"When little girls tell tiny fibs,We turn all roary tory;And tell how lions ate the child,Who told one naughty story.But when the girls adorn themselves,With hair dye, paint and chignon;They look so nice, that in a trice,We alter our opinion."—Anon.
"When little girls tell tiny fibs,We turn all roary tory;And tell how lions ate the child,Who told one naughty story.But when the girls adorn themselves,With hair dye, paint and chignon;They look so nice, that in a trice,We alter our opinion."
—Anon.
The rain comes down in a dull, ceaseless pour, making the icy streets still more dangerous to walk safely on. A regular January thaw, after a freezing spell of bitterly cold weather. Rea Severn, sitting in a large invalid chair, looks out on the dreary scene. She is thinking long, and hardly, and bitterly on her past life. No one would recognize the bright vivacious Rea in the distressed looking creature sitting there, in her white dress, the dress no whiter than the wearer's face. Her eyes look as if she had cried all the brightness out of them. Rea has been very ill; at one time it was understood she could not recover. The habit of eating opium had taken full possession of her, and now she is but a skeleton of her former bright self. She had eaten only a little at first, because it put color in her otherwise colorless face. It helped to brighten her eyes; made her high spirited. But after a time its deadly work began. She could no longer exist without a double portion of the deadly drug. The habit, of which she had been warned against by the Gipsy, during her visit to the Island, with the other members of the party which were on board the Hon. Jerry's yacht, was certainly doing its best to kill her, if she did not kill it. And Rea felt almost powerless to battle any longer. People said she most certainly must put something on her face, it was such a strangely, pinkish-creamy tint. Rea denied it to all but Arial St. James, and it was to be said to Arial's credit, that she was shocked when she discovered the girl had recourse to such means. She persuaded her to stop, but Rea persisted, and made Arial promise secrecy. During her spells of low-spiritedness, the only one who could sympathize with her was Mrs. St. James. During the past three years, no one but the girl herself knew how she had suffered; how many battles she had tried to fight against it; how many prayers she had offered up, but all seemed of no avail; and at last, when death had almost claimed her, she seemed ready to lay down the weapons at the enemy's feet and give up all further efforts in despair.
When Sister Jean came to take care of her, she it was who changed the whole current of Rea Severn's life. She offered to help her daily; she told of the quiet, peaceful convent life; of the good waiting to be done, if there were any to do it. She braced Rea's spirits up and brought her to see that there are more things in the world to live for beside one's own selfishness. And the Heavenly hand she had almost began to think had failed her, was stretched out to Rea to assist her future life, to guide her steps into a safer path than she had been treading. For the first time for many months and years her mind was calm and satisfied; she found a peaceful calm and quiet settle around her after hearing Sister Jean's gentle voice, telling her of the helpfulness to many of the convent sisters. The wind howls around the house dismally. Rea shivers and looks from the dreary outside to the cheerful fire roaring in the pretty room within. There is a peal of silvery laughter comes floating up-stairs, followed by Mrs. St. James' lovely self. She could not wait any longer for the storm to clear, but had taken a cab and come over to cheer up her invalid friend. She comes into the pretty room, smilingly serene as usual.
"Arial, how good of you to come to me, and on such a miserable day, too." Mrs. St. James takes the easy chair opposite Rea. She looks over toward the other window, with a very scornful smile on her very beautiful lips. She has no smile, no word of greeting for the other occupant of the room. It is quite foreign to her to take any notice of the charity sister, whom it has been Rea's fancy to make so friendly of. Most decidedly Mrs. St. James does not approve of Sister Jean. Does it ever enter the scornful lady's mind that she may and would live to see the day when she would do anything reasonable or otherwise to be recognized by the girl over there in the window, who never raises her sweet, pale face from her sewing? Perhaps not, we do not know, in these days of possibilities, what is likely to happen within a short period.
"Have you heard about Gordon Aubrey, my dear? What will you say when I tell you? Prepare for a shock to your feelings." Rea smiles languidly.
"Poor Gordon, what has he been up to now?" she asks, indifferently. She has always been fond, very fond of Gordon. And Gordon? Well, the path he has marked out for himself now, goes to show how fond he was of charming Rea.
"He went somewhere with some friends, fishing; they came across some girl, and Gordon, of course, as usual, was immediately captivated with her pretty face; he only knew her a week, when, to use Whitehead's words,
'In short she blushed, she looked consent,He grasped her hand, to church they went.'
'In short she blushed, she looked consent,He grasped her hand, to church they went.'
And Gordon is lost to us all forever and aye." Arial is hardly prepared to see Rea take her words so coolly.
"And so he has been and gone and done it? May every happiness follow him and his pretty wife, whoever she be," are Rea's gracious words.
"I should not like to be her; in a week he will tire of her. You know he is not one of the constant sort." Mrs. St. James shrugs those beautiful shoulders of hers. She is really quite disgusted at Gordon's lack of taste. A girl with no education whatever, and in those days, too, when every person has a chance to learn, if they so please. She hopes he will repent, and that bitterly, in the bargain.
"Such a nice fellow young Lord Streathmere has become; they say his mother and he, accompanied by Sir Barry Traleigh, were at the ball last night. Sir Barry gets nicer every day; what a pity he does not marry."
Sister Jean's spool of thread falls on the floor: she stoops to pick it up and then glides from the room. This is the first time sister Jean heard of Lord Streathmere, but her heart beats with grateful affection at the mention of Sir Barry Traleigh.
"I cannot understand how you can have that girl here, Rea; she would give me the chills to have her gliding so noiselessly around. Another thing, you are nearly well now; I don't see why you need her any longer."
The clouds are breaking away, the storm is over, and a glimmer of sunlight, peeping from a rift in the sky, falls on Rea's pale face, and lights up the tired eyes.
"What makes you so prejudiced against her, Arial?" she asks, looking at Mrs. St. James' cold, handsome face.
"I have no patience with that class of people; my advice to you is to get rid of her as soon as you can." Mrs. St. James feels she has not all the confidence of Rea. She used to tell her everything, but since sister Jean's arrival, Rea never has any confidence to make, and Arial feels she is gradually being rivalled, and by a charity sister. It is all very bitter for Arial to believe.
Some days later, the cosy library at Mrs. St. James is bright with light, and warmth.
"Something to interest you, my dear," Mr. St. James says, passing his wife the evening paper. Very quietly Arial looks up from her book. She takes the paper, and a red, deep crimson spot burns on both her perfect cheeks as she reads. It has come to pass what she has been dreading.
"It is to be regretted by all who have known her worth of goodness, that mother St. Marguerite, the sympathetic Mother Superior of the Convent of St. Marguerite, is about to give up the position she has begun and succeeded with so famously. Her place will be supplied by one whom we all hope may prove herself as worthy of esteem as her valuable predecessor. The new Mother Superior is a lady who lately adorned the most brilliant and fashionable society circles—Miss Rea Severn."
"It is to be regretted by all who have known her worth of goodness, that mother St. Marguerite, the sympathetic Mother Superior of the Convent of St. Marguerite, is about to give up the position she has begun and succeeded with so famously. Her place will be supplied by one whom we all hope may prove herself as worthy of esteem as her valuable predecessor. The new Mother Superior is a lady who lately adorned the most brilliant and fashionable society circles—Miss Rea Severn."
"Stolen sweets are always sweeter,Stolen kisses much completer;Stolen look are nice in Chapels,Stolen, stolen be your apples."—Leigh Hunt.
"Stolen sweets are always sweeter,Stolen kisses much completer;Stolen look are nice in Chapels,Stolen, stolen be your apples."
—Leigh Hunt.
It is Sunday morning, a bright, beautiful, peaceful Sabbath. The pretty church is warm and comfortable. The sunlight, creeping in through the gaily painted stained glass windows, tinge those sitting in its brilliant rays, with every vivid hue of the rainbow. The service has begun when Mr. Vacine enters, and with him a tall, pleasant looking young fellow, who, as he takes his seat, looks eagerly up to the choir. Dolores, sitting up there in her own special corner, starts and looks a second time at the stranger, who is regarding her fixedly.
"How in the name of sense has Ned Crane come here? And with Mr. Vacine, too—Mr. Vacine, who never entertains, from one year's end to the other." This is what Dolores is saying in her mind. "And then just look at Mr. Vacine's face. How wonderfully happy he looks; surely something very unusual has happened that Mr. Vacine should wear such a very beatific expression." A little boy in the next seat dropped his cent on the floor, then he looked at the elderly gentleman and by him in awe; all the small children stood in great dread of old Mr. Vacine. The child expected either a stern look of disapproval, or else a poke from Mr. Vacine's gold-headed cane. Contrary to the youngster's expectations, he saw Mr. Vacine actually smiling at him—smiling after he had let his cent drop on the floor with such a click. The little boy was so astonished that he was quiet during the remainder of the service. Dolores has only arrived home this morning from her visit to Blondine. She had got ready as soon as she arrived, and gone to morning service, for the parson was anxious that she should take her place again in the choir. She has not seen Sister Jean yet, and Dolores is very anxious to do so. Zoe, from her high seat at the organ, is "taking in" the young man with Mr. Vacine. He is quite nice in Zoe's sight, and the youngest Miss Litchfield listens to the sermon and determines that she thinks she will like him very much. At the door, Mr. Vacine invites Zoe and her sister up to take dinner. Dolores demurs, but Zoe says promptly, "Of course they will;" so Dolores goes. Over the prettily arranged dinner table Mr. Vacine tells the two astonished girls all about the dear nephew who had left his uncle's home in a passion, vowing never to return. But something happened that made him feel remorseful for having deserted the kind old uncle, who had always been as a father to him. So the prodigal had returned, and Mr. Vacine cannot disguise his gladness.
"I never imagined we should meet here, Ned," Dolores says, as they saunter through the warm, pleasant drawing-rooms.
Zoe has gone up stairs to play some hymns for Mr. Vacine; in the cosy music room.
"It is queer now, when you think of it, and, by jove, what an awfully pretty girl your sister is," Ned says. He has always admired Dolores immensely, but Zoe—Zoe was so entirely different. In fact Ned is sure he will grow to be awfully fond of Mr. Litchfield's pretty wilful daughter Zoe.
The sun shines brightly on the clear, white, glistening road, covered with snow; the icicles glitter in the limbs of the leafless trees like crystal; everything is bright, cold, and sparkling. The bells are ringing for Sunday-school, and the little and big children troop along in response to the bell's call.
"I was awfully glad you found your mother. How was it you did not know where she was before?" Ned asks, as they stand at the window, watching the passers by.
Dolores silently contemplates the gold fish swimming around and around in the huge glass globe.
"She said a feeling she could not resist, made her think it her duty to leave home and found a safe, calm retreat, by which much good could be done for the sick, poor or suffering, of a large city like Montreal. She knew aunt Adeline would take excellent care of the house, and my sister and I, so she went. You know the rest, how she has instituted a convent, that all declare had done more good than any other institution of a like kind. Now she has consented to give up the name of Mother St. Marguerite, and come back to us all at home. You cannot fancy, Ned, how too good it seems, after all those years, to have my mother again. Just think of Rea Severn taking mother's place. What strange things happen."
"I guess she felt pretty cut up about Gordon Aubrey's marriage," Ned says, his heart beginning to beat, as light footsteps are heard running down stairs, and a clear girlish voice calling Dolores' name.
"We must really go, Dolores, I have brought your coat and hat," Zoe announces, dropping the articles on a chair, as she speaks.
"Mr. Crane, what a good time you must have, if you are fond of pictures; why this house is a paradise," says this precocious child, going over to one of the mirrors to put on her hat.
"Sir Barry Traleigh is a beautiful painter," announces the youngest Miss Litchfield proudly. It has occasioned her much pride to tell her girl acquaintances, how a real, live "Sir" had initiated her into the mysteries of painting.
Ned looks deeply amused, the girl is so original, so different from any other girl of her years. The corners of his mouth twitch in a highly suspicious way; he would enjoy vastly to laugh, but politeness forbids, and he turns to Dolores.
"When did you say this very beautiful cousin of yours, Miss Gray, was expected?"
Dolores laughs, her sweet, silvery tones filling the handsome old room with sweet music.
"It is doubtful what day. I shall expect you to fall in love with Blondine the first time you meet," she says archly.
"Perhaps," Ned answers, watching Zoe fastening up her roll of music.
"Have the girls gone?" asks Mr. Vacine, coming in from a brisk walk around the snow covered garden.
"No, but just going," Dolores says, smiling.
"Give my love to mother and father, and be good girls, both of you," and Mr. Vacine goes into the library and shuts the door. Ned puts on his overcoat and walks down with the girls to the gate. He offers to escort them home, but Dolores will not listen to such an arrangement, much to the youngest Miss Litchfield's disgust. It is a bitterly cold afternoon; the sun looks out sullenly from behind dull, grey clouds.
"The days are certainly very changeable," Zoe declares as they hurry home, the snow creaking beneath their feet. "This morning has been so bright, and now just see how dull it has become."
Dolores removes her seal jacket and hat by the stove in the hall, and Zoe says she will carry them up-stairs, as she is going up. Dolores pushes open the drawing-room door and goes in. The cosy fire looks very cheerful and inviting. Drawing up an arm chair, Dolores sits down to enjoy the warmth. The folding doors are on a jar. Presently someone comes in.
"Ah, Sister Jean, you are reading yet? Your Bible chapter has been rather lengthy, if it is not yet finished." Mrs. Litchfield's pleasant voice says.
"I had finished reading some time ago, and was indulging in a day dream when you came," is the reply. Dolores sits upright in her chair. Surely she has heard that peculiar voice before.
"I have not seen your other daughter yet. I wonder if she will be very angry with me for asking her a question? Sir Barry Traleigh, the last words he spoke to me were to find out, if I could, why Miss Dolores treated him so unkindly. Sir Barry is very fond of your eldest daughter, and he feels her unkind conduct to him very keenly."
Dolores springs from her seat to the door and looks through the opening into the next room. Oh! Why was I so quick to jump to conclusions, might I not have known I could have trusted him? Sister Jean is, yes, the same girl I saw talking to him that wretched day in Italy. She looks again. Yes, she has snubbed Sir Barry all this time, and now will he, will he forgive her? Dolores is dreadfully put about. Sister Jean's next words almost finish her anguish of mind.
"I understand he proposes returning to his home in Scotland, almost immediately. He says there is no excuse for his remaining away any longer. If Miss Dolores would only consider what a wrong she is doing herself by throwing away the love of a good man like Sir Barry, she would be lifting a weight off more than one mind."
There is a silence for a space, then Mrs. Litchfield says, quietly:
"I am sure my Dolores would have told me if there had been any trouble. She certainly cannot know that he cares for her in the way you mean, or—"
The curtains are thrown unceremoniously aside.
"Mother, I did, I do know. What if he has gone before he knows differently? Will he ever forgive my coldness toward him? What shall I do? What am I to do?" Sister Jean's face is bright with gladness. At last she has done something for Sir Barry in return for all his goodness to her. She, or, at least, her words have done more to turn Dolores' wilful, yet loving heart, than anything else could do.
"Mortgages and great relations, And Indian bonds, and tithes and rents, What are they to love's sensations?"—Praed.
"Mortgages and great relations, And Indian bonds, and tithes and rents, What are they to love's sensations?"
—Praed.
"Oh mercy! A real, live Lord to be in town, and I declare if Sir Barry Traleigh is not here, too. Hurrah for our side!"
The breakfast room is cheerful with fire and sunlight. Zoe is reading the list of hotel arrivals.
"What is the child talking about? Zoe, I trust you are not growing profane. What is that you are saying about Lord?" Aunt Adeline is busy with the breakfast arrangements, and has only caught a stray word of Zoe's exclamation.
"Father," calls the youngest Miss Litchfield, at the top of her far from low voice, "Did you know Sir Harry was here? My dear old Jet, how glad I will be to see that man."
"Not so loud, my girl," her father says from the fire where he is warming his hands. "I saw them last night, and invited them here to dinner this evening."
Aunt Adeline sniffs in an ominous manner. The Litchfield household have got to look upon that sniff of aunt Adeline's as boding no good to any new project of which it is doubtful if she will approve.
"Chickens are eighty cents a pair in the market, are you aware of it, Edward?" she asks tartly. Mr. Litchfield laughs.
"Well, my dear sister, we need not encourage their heinous demands."
"Lords and Sirs always expect every luxury, whether reasonable or otherwise, but as you have already asked them, I will have to do the best I can." Miss Adeline stalks from the room with a stern look of disapproval on her face. "Lords and Sirs indeed," she mutters. "Pray is it not all owing to Sir Barry that is making her dear Dolores go around looking so disconsolate?" She never for a moment takes into consideration that it is all Dolores own wilfulness that has made Sir Barry stay away so long.
A telegram arrives during the forenoon from uncle Dick Gray, announcing their coming that very afternoon. Dolores drives over to the station with her span of grey ponies, to meet and bring them home.
At dinner Lord Streathmere is presented to Sister Jean. Blondine, merry Blondine, his right hand neighbor at dinner, is nearly beside herself with merriment, as she watches the covert looks of admiration he casts across the table at the convent sister. Sister Jean has improved wonderfully since her arrival; gay and charming, she is almost the pretty Jantie of old. Poor Burpee, Lord Streathmere, is very badly hit; more so, perhaps, than he himself thinks. Dolores has a bad headache, and does not put in an appearance. Zoe is rather disappointed in Sir Barry, he seems so much changed since he left; not the same genial Jet who had petted and teased the youngest Miss Litchfield almost to distraction. He seemed to Zoe older and graver. After dinner Dolores comes down to the pretty drawing-room. She is looking most wonderfully sweet and gracious. Lord Streathmere is making great strides in his friendship with Sister Jean. He suddenly manifests a strong inclination about finding out the ways of life in a convent, and the wants of the poorer classes. To all this Sister Jean gives her patient attention and information.
Sir Barry is standing by the little Gipsy table, where Dolores is busy, daintily dealing out cream, and sugar, and coffee, in tiny shell-like cups. Dolores is very gracious this evening, so much so that Sir Barry is completely dazzled, and he can scarcely realize she can mean it all for his own benefit. She is wearing a dress this evening, the identical kind of a one she wore daring the last tender interview they had held together in far off sunny Nice, when Dolores had strayed down to the clear moonlit garden, and Sir Barry had almost declared himself. Dolores talks on, her soft, pleasant laugh filling up the spaces, when Sir Barry forgets to answer. A marble jar standing near is laden with mignonette and candy tuft, filling the rooms with their sweetness, making Sir Barry almost positive that the present is a dream, and that he is back in the pretty Italian garden, surrounded by the old-fashioned sweet-smelling flowers, walking by Dolores side, and listening to her gay, young voice.
"Now stupid, try, do, to keep still until I can undo this tangle you have made," says the youngest Miss Litchfield to Ned, who sits most patiently, adoringly, by Zoe's side, assisting, or detaining, the young lady to wind a skein of wool.
In spite of all aunt Adeline's corrections, her niece very frequently falls into the error of raising her voice to what Miss Adeline considers a most unladylike pitch of clearness and highness. Staring at people was another grave offence that called forth all aunt Adeline's attempts to put down. Zoe would open those wonderful grey green eyes of hers and stare at you for, it would be impossible to say what length of time. Habit, of course, but a habit that aunt Adeline's gentle "Zoe, my dear, drop your eyes, dear," failed to mend.
"I see St. James is selling out, and going to live abroad. I wonder what he purposes doing?" asks Lord Streathmere.
"I believe this climate does not agree with Mrs. St. James' health," Blondine answers quickly.
Dolores looks across the room at Ned; he catches her eye, and smiles.
"Handsome woman, I have heard," Mr. Litchfield says, from the hall where he is walking up and down.
"Who do you mean? Ah yes, Mrs. St. James; a most peculiar woman," says Sir Barry, as he comes back, after giving Mrs. Litchfield her cup of coffee.
A very great favorite is Sir Barry of Mrs. Litchfield's; she is so grateful to him for all his past goodness, and, knowing Dolores tender secret, she looks forward to Sir Barry some day gaining his heart's desire. They are a very gay party; Blondine is greatly interested in Sister Jean. She has taken a great fancy to this girl, of whom she has heard so pitiful a history. This lovely morning Blondine and Sister Jean are driving into the town to do some shopping. Pretty Blondine is always needing "trash," as she calls the hundred and one odds and ends her fancy decrees. She has declared her intention of visiting the furrier's store this particular day.
"Why, Miss Gray, what do you want of another seal jacket when you have such a beauty already?" Sister Jean asks, as the man displays the goods before Blondine's critical eyes.
"My darling, I want it for you."
"For me?" Sister Jean's pretty lips ejaculate. Nothing that she could say would make imperious Blondine change her mind.
"To please me, dear, you will take it, won't you? I have so much money I do not know how to spend it. You will not feel insulted and refuse my gift, will you?" Blondine argues in her coaxing tones.
So the gift was accepted. Sister Jean is very happy, everyone is so good to her—to her, a poor charity sister. But as far as being intimately connected for the future with the convent, they will lose one of their most staunch and zealous workers. For Lord Streathmere had very humbly and in great trepidation, asked Sister Jean to marry him.
It all seemed very impossible, but true, nevertheless, and Sister Jean? well, she was so grateful to him, and then another thing, she had learned to be very fond of impetuous, handsome Lord Streathmere. So as there was no need for delay, one pleasant sunny morning in May, pretty Jantie Mackeith became Lady Streathmere. And Burpee's meaning was very tender as well as sincere, when he whispered in Jantie's dainty ear:
"Huntingtower is mine lassie,Huntingtower is mine Jeanie;Huntingtower an' a' Blairgower,And a' that's mine is thine lassie."
"Huntingtower is mine lassie,Huntingtower is mine Jeanie;Huntingtower an' a' Blairgower,And a' that's mine is thine lassie."
No one among all the throng of invited fashionables knew the bride's origin. All they knew was that it was a purely love match, very unusual in those all-for-money-days. But the poor, sick and suffering, of the convent of St. Marguerite are losing a gentle, sympathetic friend. An anonymous gift of several hundred dollars, was received by the new Mother Superior, which went to show Jantie's influence had already begun. Lord Streathmere's mother was not present at the marriage; she was in the south of France, and she dared not risk her health in our clear, cold Canadian winter. The happy couple went away immediately on an extended European tour.
"I am off to-morrow, my dear, for far off Scotish home; will you not say farewell, Miss Litchfield?"
The sun is streaming in, in all its full, glorious tints through the stained glass windows of the pretty sitting room, and falls and lingers lovingly on Dolores' head, bent over the table writing. She starts as Sir Barry speaks.
"To-morrow," she repeats, gazing at him as if his words were some foreign tongue, to her meaningless. She loves this man standing there, but her proud heart is too lofty to let such a feeling be fancied, let alone proved. And so she hides her feelings behind an icy exterior. And Sir Barry has given Dolores, his own Dolores—as he calls her passionately to himself—up almost in despair.
"Yes, it is a long time now since I have seen the dear old place, and I dare say they are requiring my presence there. I have done all I can do here, there is no need for my remaining longer, there will be no one to be sorry I am gone. Good bye, Miss Litchfield, I am sorry I have always seemed to displease you, very sorry, but when I am gone, then perhaps you may sometimes think of me kindly in my far off lonely home."
Sir Barry's voice breaks in a highly suspicious way. He is holding his hand out to Dolores; but Dolores' eyes are full of tears, she cannot see the outstretched hand. What makes her sit there, feeling so silly? What will Sir Barry think of her? She tries to throw off the strange feeling that is stealing over her senses, but Sir Barry's words were so pathetic they struck direct to Dolores' rebellious, loving heart. She drops her head on the table and weeps.
"Dolores, my darling, do you care so much that I am going?" He steps over to her side. "Is it go or stay, Dolores?" Sir Barry asks, with a peculiar catch in his clear, firm tone.
"Stay," comes the reply from the bowed head on the table, and Sir Barry stays.
"There's something undoubtedly in a fine air,To know how to smile, and be able to stare;High breeding is something, but well bred or not,In the end the one question is, What have you got?"—A. H. Clough.
"There's something undoubtedly in a fine air,To know how to smile, and be able to stare;High breeding is something, but well bred or not,In the end the one question is, What have you got?"
—A. H. Clough.
The sun is shining brightly, pleasantly, over all London, England, even penetrating into the dim, dirty alleys, and tenements; but is also shining, with all its wealth of golden, cheering gladness, into the long, handsome gallery of art at the great London exhibition. Pictures and pictures of endless variety and beauty are here displayed. There is one especially that fascinates the eyes of all the thousands of curious visitors. It is hanging in a perfect light, in a heavy gold frame. Offers to purchase it have been innumerable, but a little tag on the corner announces to the would-be purchaser that it is already sold. The scene is a beautiful Italian garden. Seated in a swaying chair, on the pretty terrace, is a lady whose face people rave over, as being the image of Dolores, Sir Barry Traleigh's beautiful wife. The lady is engaged in writing a letter. The trees almost immediately opposite the terrace, conceals the indistinct form of a man watching. By the lady's side, lying with his dark curly head resting on the train of the lady's white lace dress, is a little boy, in a white embroidered frock, sleeping. The Prince of Wales, who opened the exhibition, was so struck by the merits of the picture, that he desired an introduction to the fair young painter. And Zoe was duly presented to our future king, who shook the girl's hand warmly, and wished her all good success in the future. Surely Zoe's "Some Day" had come with a wealth of splendor and glory. It had been at Sir Barry's direction, that his sister-in-law painted it, and he had bought it at a princely price to hang in the exquisitely furnished drawing-room at Castle Racquette. As Zoe expresses it, "Everyone and his brother are here." Sir Barry and Lady Traleigh have run down from Castle Racquette to London, to be the proud witness of Zoe's triumph. Dolores is charmed with her beautiful Scottish home, and is loved by everyone, as she deserved so well to be.
Jantie, Lady Streathmere, is the pride and delight of the husband's life. She rules her elegant home with a firm, but gentle hand, and though Burpee, Lord Streathmere, is not her heart's first love, still she honors and respects him thoroughly. The dowager Lady Streathmere is very fond of Jantie; she was very agreeably disappointed in the girl, and now she speaks to her friends in loud terms of "my daughter Jantie's excellence." While they were in Paris, they met Mrs. St. James. She was very gracious to Jantie, and made much of Lord Streathmere's pretty, demure wife. But her overtures were not at all successful. Lord Streathmere never liked her, and Jantie could not help remembering how coldly cynical Mrs. St. James had been to "Sister Jean." Gordon Aubrey and his pretty wife are living very happily, though not endowed very richly with this world's goods, still she has won her husband's love, and knows how to keep it, and Gordon has certainly not repented of his bargain, as Mrs. St. James had predicted. The Hon. Jerry Hopkins is still unmarried: he declares himself as "not a marrying man." People say he felt very badly at Rea Severn entering the convent. But sometimes people say a good deal that is not quite true. The convent of St. Marguerite is in a flourishing condition, everything works on serenely and calmly. Uncle Dick Gray has his new house completed and is charmed with its beauty. Blondine declares that he thinks more of the house than he does of her.
It is Winter again, a cold December afternoon, and Ned Crane has just "happened in," as he very often does now, to have a chat with Zoe, and to hear over and over again about her lovely visit abroad with Sir Barry and Dolores. Mr. Vacine is very anxious that Ned will marry Zoe, but like her sister, the youngest Miss Litchfield, is very refractory. She is really very fond indeed of gay, good-hearted, adoring Ned. But it is far from her to give him the satisfaction of knowing. She knows Ned intends asking her to marry him, and, perhaps, after a good many years from now, he will. Ned stops and talks so long that at last the pretty white and gold clock strikes five, and they hear Mrs. Litchfield and Aunt Adeline preparing tea in the dining hall.
"Say Zoe, when are you going to say 'yes' to what I asked you the other day?" Ned says, as he pokes the fire in the brightly-polished grate.
"Nonsense," Miss Litchfield answers, crossly. She heartily wishes Ned would not allude to that "other day," when he had stirred up her feelings so remorselessly. She smiles grimly and clinks her knitting needles together viciously. She even goes so far as to give "Duff," the unoffending kitten, an angry poke with her toe.
"Won't you tell me when, dear?" Ned urges, tenderly. And Zoe throws the crimson and white smoking cap she is making on the sofa.
"I must go and see if the supper is nearly ready," she says, standing by Ned's side, in the red glow of the flickering firelight.
Ned takes the pretty hand hanging by her side. "Say, Zoe, when will you marry me?"
With a clear, mocking laugh she twists her hand away. And the tantalizing words he has heard so often ring through the pretty cosy, fire-lit room, echoing wilful Zoe's words, as she floats out the door toward the dining hall, for she is most unromantically hungry for her tea. The answer to Ned's earnest question was one of Zoe's clear, sweet ripples of gay laughter, and the mocking words, "Some Day."