Mr. Underwood slowly shook his head. "You'd better not try it, my boy; you'd better not!" "When do you expect this trouble to come to a head?" Darrell asked at length. "Some time in the early part of July, probably; they expect to get their arrangements completed by that time." A long silence followed; Mrs. Dean came softly into the room and took her accustomed seat, and, as Mr. Underwood made it a point never to talk of business matters in his sister's presence, nothing more was said regarding the prospective disturbance at the mines. After dinner the beauty of the sunset brought them out upon the veranda. The air was warm and fragrant with the breath of spring. The buds were swelling on the lilacs near the house, and out on the lawn, beyond the driveway, millions of tiny spears of living green trembled in the light breeze. "David," said Mrs. Dean, presently, "have you shown Mr. Darrell that picture of Katherine that came yesterday?" "I declare! No; I had forgotten it!" Mr. Underwood exclaimed. "It's well for you she isn't here to hear you say that!" Mrs. Dean remarked, smiling. "Puss knows her old father well enough to know he wouldn't forget her very long. Bring the picture out, Marcia." Darrell heard Mrs. Dean approaching, and turned, with the glory of the sunset in his eyes. "Don't you want to see Katherine's new picture?" she inquired. Her words instantly recalled the portrait he had studied the preceding night, and with that in his mind he took the picture she handed him and silently compared the two. Ah, the beauty of the spring, everywhere confronting him, was in that face also; the joy of a life as yet pure, untainted, and untrammelled. It was like looking into the faces of the spring flowers which reflect only the sunshine, the purity and the sweetness of earth. There was a touch of womanly dignity, too, in the poise of the head, but the beautiful eyes, though lighted with the faint dawn of coming womanhood, were the same as those that had appealed to him the night before with their wistful longing. "It is a fine portrait, but as I do not remember her, I cannot judge whether it is like herself or not," he said, handing the picture to Mr. Underwood, who seemed almost to devour it with his eyes, though he spoke no word and not a muscle moved in his stern, immobile face. "She is getting to be such a young lady," remarked Mrs. Dean, "that I expect when she comes home we will feel as though she had grown away from us all." "She will never do that, Marcia, never!" said Mr. Underwood, brusquely, as he abruptly left the group and went into the house. There was a moment's silence, then Mrs. Dean said, in a low tone,-- "She is getting to look just like her mother. I haven't seen David so affected since his wife died as he was when that picture came yesterday." Darrell bowed silently, in token that he understood.