“Katherine is more interesting to me,” said his sister; “I like Honor immensely, but she is more conventional than Katherine and more self-controlled. Katherine is full of fire and enthusiasm, and I like it. Plenty of faults, no doubt, but whole souled. Honor is charming, though, too.” “They seem very jolly and have plenty of fun in them. How amusing it was last night.” “Very; I like both the girls very much, and I am curious to meet the other one, Victoria, or Vic, as they call her. Though she is so young, she seems to be a moving spirit in the family. I wonder why we haven’t met her anywhere.” “Apparently because she runs away from us. I was sure last evening that I caught a glimpse of some one peeping through the door at the back of the hall when that amiable maid of theirs was telling us that they had gone to bed,” said Roger, laughing at the recollection. “It must be trying for them to give up so much and work so hard when they have been accustomed to such a different life,” said his sister. “Did you notice the pictures?”. “Yes. They were chosen by some one with very good judgment. There were one or two water-colors on the wall that were excellent, and some fine etchings. I saw two by the same man who did the one that I gave you at Christmas, Margaret.” “The one you bought of the girl in the picture store? I feel a special interest in that picture, Roger. I am forever imagining what kind of a girl she must have been and how she came to do that.” “Because she had to, I suppose. She was a nice-looking little thing, and she was a lady. Not exactly pretty, but her face was interesting. I saw a photograph at the Starrs’ last night that reminded me of her. I meant to have told you.” “I have a feeling that we shall see her again some day, because I am so deeply interested in her,” said Miss Madison, musingly. “I don’t think I could feel so about a person whom I am never to see. But what a keen-sighted person you are, Roger! Without appearing to look about, you seem to have absorbed every picture in that room. I daresay you could tell me the titles of all the books in the cases and the music in the music racks!” “As well as the number of roses in that child’s wreath,” said Roger, laughing; “I wouldn’t have missed that sight for the world. What’s the matter with that dog?” he asked suddenly. They were about to pass under a railroad bridge not far from their own home. Standing on the bridge, very near the edge and almost falling over in his efforts to make himself heard, was an ungainly-looking yellow dog. He was barking madly, occasionally varying the sound by piteous whines and yelps of entreaty. Roger paused and looked up. “What’s the matter, old fellow?” he said kindly. “You had better get off the track. You will be run over, for it is almost time for a train.”