“This one is a royal creature,” said Bayard. “It has the face of a Queen.” “Mr. Bayard,” asked Mrs. Carruth, with the air of starting a subject of depth and force, “do you find any time to analyze flowers?” “So far--hardly,” replied Bayard, looking Helen straight in the face. “I used to study botany when I was a young lady--in New York,” observed Mrs. Carruth placidly; “it seems to me a very wholesome and refining”-- “Papa!” cried Helen, “Pepper is eating a tomato can--No, it’s a piece of--It is an apron--a gingham apron! The menu of that horse, Mr. Bayard, surpasses anything”-- “It is plainly some article belonging to the ladies of the house,” said Bayard, laughing. He had started to rescue the apron, when Jane Granite was seen to run out and wrench that portion of her wardrobe from Pepper’s voracity. “That,” observed Mrs. Carruth, “is the maid, I presume?” “It is Miss Granite, my landlady’s daughter,” replied Bayard with some unnecessary dignity. Poor little Jane, red in the face, and raging at the heart, stood, with the eyes of the visitors upon her, contending with Pepper, who insisted on retaining the apron strings, and had already swallowed one halfway. Quick to respond to the discomfort of any woman, Bayard ran down to Jane’s relief. “It blew over from the lines,” said Jane. She lifted to him her sad, grateful eyes. She would have cried, if she had ventured to speak. Helen, from the window, looked down silently. When Bayard came upstairs again, his visitors had risen to leave, in earnest. Helen avoided his eyes. He felt that hers had taken in every detail of his poor place: the iron angel on the ugly stove; the Cupid and the grapes upon the paper screen; the dreary, darned, brown carpet; the barren shades; the mosquito-net portière; the whole homeless, rude, poverty-smitten thing. “You have a fine engraving of Guido’s Saint Michael, here,” observed Professor Carruth, taking out his glasses. “And I notice--don’t I see another good picture through the gauze portière?” asked Mrs. Carruth modestly. “That is Leonardo’s Christ,” said the Professor promptly, at a look. “It really makes a singular, I may say a beautiful, impression behind that white stuff. I never happened to see it before with such an effect. Look, Helen! It seems like a transparency--or a cloud.” A devout expression touched Helen’s face, which had grown quite grave. She did not answer, and went downstairs behind her mother, very quietly. Jane Granite had disappeared. Pepper was engaged in a private conflict with such portions of her wardrobe as he had succeeded in swallowing; Mrs. Carruth mounted heavily into the carryall, and Helen leaped after her. Then it appeared that the Professor had forgotten his cane, and Bayard ran back for it. As he came down, he caught a glimpse of Jane Granite in the sitting-room. She was crying.