"Amarilly," exclaimed Derry rapturously, "I never saw anything quite so beautiful. Some day I'll paint you, not as a scrub-girl nor as a waitress, but as Sunset. You shall stand at this window with your hair as it is now, and you'll outshine the glory of descending Sol himself. I will get a filmy, white dress for you to pose in and present it to you afterward. And as you half turn your head toward the window, you must have a dreamy, reflective expression! You must think of something sad, something that might have been a tragedy but for some mitigating--but there, you don't know what I am talking about!" "Yes, I do, Mr. Derry. I know what you mean, even if I didn't ketch--" "Catch, Amarilly; not ketch." "But my word for to-day is 'afraid,'" she said stubbornly. "I wasn't to have but one word a day. I'll say 'ketch' until to-morrow." "Oh, Amarilly, such system as you have! You are right though; but tell me what it was I meant." "You mean I am to think of something awful that would have been more awful but for something nice that happened. I'll think of the day last summer when we couldn't pay the rent. That was sad until the bishop came along and things got brighter." "Exactly. You have the temperament, Amarilly, but you should have written to your twin brother in such a dilemma. It's late now, or it will be when you get home. I am going to walk with you." "No; I am not afraid." "It makes no difference; I am going with you. To think that, intimate friends as we are, I have never seen your home, your numerous brothers, and the Boarder. I am going to spend the evening with you." "Oh, no!" she protested, appalled at the prospect. "You mustn't." "Why, Amarilly, how inhospitable you are! I thought you would be pleased." "I guess you couldn't stand for it." "Stand for what, Amarilly?" "Why, you see, I am not ashamed of it, but it's so diff'rent from what you're used to, and you wouldn't like it, and I'd feel uncomfortable like with you there." "Why, Amarilly!" A really pained look came into his boyish eyes. "I thought we were friends. And you let Miss King and your minister come--" "But you see," argued Amarilly, "it's diff'rent with them. A minister has to go everywhere, and he's used to seeing all kinds of houses; and then Miss King, she's a sort of a--settlement worker." "I see," said Derry. "But, Amarilly, to be a true artist, or a writer, one must see all sorts and conditions of life. But I am not coming for that. I am coming because I like you and want to meet your family." "Well," agreed Amarilly, resigned, but playing her last trump, "you haven't had your dinner yet." "We had a very late luncheon, if you remember, and I am invited to a supper after the theatre to-night, so I am not dining." Amarilly did not respond to his light flow of chatter on the way home. She halted on the threshold of her home, and looked at him with despair in her honest young eyes. "Our house hasn't got any insides or any stairs even. Just a ladder."