We four, uncle, auntie, Mr. Hargreaves and I, were much in the gondolas, going now here, now there, seeing strange old things and dreaming old dreams. Not at all, I am sure, because he cares for me, but just because the surroundings were too much for him, Mr. Hargreaves was inclined to be—well, a trifle sentimental. But I couldn’t endure that. Having the wrong man make love is worse than going without—Oh, much! But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, so I took it all as a joke, and told him to hold Aunt Lorena’s hand; that she was a much more sentimental person than I. He sent me flowers every morning, but I wouldn’t keep them. There was a sweet English girl there who was not well, and I made her take most of them. The rest I threw in the canal—not as an insult to the flowers or their giver, but because, when I was gondola riding, it gave me pleasure to throw out a rose now and then and see it drift with the tide. Aunt Lorena wasn’t sure that I was being kind to her friend, but I was, really. It wouldn’t have been at all kind to let him think I cared when I didn’t, would it, dear? We met a bright young fellow the other day who had studied at the Academy of Design with Keefe, and he said he thought Keefe had decided to go into landscape work instead of portraits, after all, which seems rather odd considering what a success he was making with portraits. I said: “Why do you think he changed?” “Oh, it’s hard to say,” he answered. “Keefe doesn’t seem the fellow he used to be. You remember how jolly he was, and how he loved company? It is different with him now. He keeps much to himself and works beyond all reason. I believe in being industrious, but there’s no use in being a fanatic about work.” “But is he well? Does he look as he used?” Suddenly I remembered that he had come south years ago because his lungs were not strong, and I turned cold at the thought that the trouble that had threatened him, might really have come back and fastened itself on him. “Oh, he looks well enough,” the young man replied. “Only a little wild and queer. But O’Connor is queer, don’t you think so? A sign of genius, no doubt. He had a strange bringing up, hadn’t he? He’s a gentleman, of course; any one can see that; but he’s rather adventurous too; a strange mixture.” I didn’t know what to say. I felt I should betray myself if I talked about him any longer, so I only ventured: “He has a charming sister. She is one of my best friends.” “Really?” said the young man. “Well, I hear O’Connor is putting up a studio somewhere in the Blue Ridge and that he means to try his hand at interpreting the mountains, but I think myself, he had better have stuck to portraits.” “Very likely,” said I. I have heard many conversations during the last few weeks, Carin, but that is the only one I remember.