“I thought she was very fresh and bright and loving,” answered Isola, “and I could see even in that one evening that she was very fond of you.” “Yes, God bless her, there is no doubt about that. I have been brother and father too for her. She has had no one but me since our mother’s death.” “Shall I write and ask her to come to us, Martin, or will you?” “I fancy she would take it more as a compliment if the invitation went straight from you. She would know that I would be glad to have her, but she might feel a little doubtful about you.” “Then I’ll write to her to-day, Martin, and beg her to come at once--as soon as ever she can pack her boxes.” “That’s my darling! I hope she won’t bore you when she is here. I have a shrewd idea she’ll make your life happier. She’ll awaken you from that languor which has grown upon you in your loneliness.” “At least I’ll try to make her happy, Martin, if it is only for your sake.” “Ah, and you will soon love her for her own sake.” “I’ll get the boat looked to at once, and I’ll see about making the spare room pretty for her,” said Isola. A week later Allegra was with them, breakfasting on the lawn in the balmy atmosphere of July. There were two girls, in white gowns, under the tulip tree, instead of one; and Martin Disney felt as if his domestic happiness were doubled, as he looked at those two graceful figures in the flickering light below that canopy of broad bright leaves. Another element of comfort, too, had entered the Angler’s Nest; for the incompetent cook had taken her incompetency and a month’s wages to her native city of Truro; and a buxom damsel from Falmouth, recommended by Tabitha, had already proved herself a treasure in the culinary art. Never was there a fairer picture than that domestic group under the tulip tree. The two girlish figures in white muslin, with palest salmon and palest azure ribbons fluttering and glancing in the light and deepening in the shadow; the white fox-terrier, alert, muscular, mercurial; the tortoise-shell cat, long-haired, aristocratic, and demure; the pretty Moorish plateau on bamboo legs, the purple and crimson breakfast service and rare old silver urn, the fruit and flowers, and amber-hued butter, and rustic luxury of preserved fruit and clotted cream. “How lovely it all is after Cavendish Road!” cried Allegra, rapturously. “When I see the lights and shadows upon those hills, I despair of ever being able to paint a landscape as long as I live. Nature is maddeningly beautiful.” “What is your particular line, Allegra?” asked her brother. “Is it landscape?”