dressmakers; but, on the whole, Isabel had never seen any one so persistently happy, nor with more reason. Even her three children were as sturdy as young calves, and although they yelled like demons for an hour every morning--reawaking to the sense of a vague something life still denied them, and infuriated at the thought--Mrs. Hofer merely turned over on her pillow with an indulgent smile. It never occurred to her that the rest of the household might be less indulgent; and the nursery above Isabel's room was not the least of the causes that contributed to a frantic longing for the thirty-first of December. XXXVII But it was not until four o'clock on the day of release that she found herself actually alone in her chilly and chaste boudoir on the higher hill; Mrs. Hofer escorted her home and remained for many last words. Then Isabel fell into a chair before the mounting fire and shut her eyes. Lady Victoria was out. Gwynne was not expected until the evening train. She wished that she had not promised to dine with the Stones at seven. The house was as silent as a tomb; but while she was still rejoicing in the sudden cessation of sound and motion, the door opened and Gwynne entered. She gave him a surly nod, and he explained that he had come down in the morning, in order to be at hand to welcome her; had even meditated going to her rescue. Isabel deigned no reply, and he took possession of a deep chair, settled himself on his backbone, and regarded her attentively. "I am sorry you have not enjoyed your week as much as I have done," he observed. "The weather has been magnificent, and I have spent all the days out-of-doors, riding, walking, duck-shooting--taking liberties with your boat, and even your launch. I never enjoyed myself more--after such close study, and all the rest of it, I suppose. I must say you don't look very fit. You are pale instead of white, and--well--cross. Judging from those models of literary elegance and Christian charity, the San Francisco weekly society sheets--with which I whiled away that infernal train journey--you have been feted like visiting royalty, photographed by the foremost in his art--which would appear to be the equivalent of painted for the Academy--and your family history seems to have been written up from old files, with even more picturesqueness than accuracy--" "I wish you would keep still. You didn't talk half so much in England. I shall hate you if you become wholly American."