"'San Francisco is the most picturesque city I ever saw,'" continued Martine, reading Brenda's letter, "'all up and down hills, so that you feel as if you were riding over the waves of the ocean when you go out in a cable-car. "'From some of the high places where you go up to get a view, very often you only see things dimly through a fog, and then the towers and spires seem parts of castles and you can imagine you are in Europe. "'But although I am perfectly contented here, I often wish I were in Boston, and it makes me too blue for anything to remember that except for business I might now be living in the dearest little apartment in the world. I hope you and your mother enjoy it, Martine, as much as I did, and that you and Priscilla are still great friends.'" Martine let the sheet of paper fall from her hand. "Are we good friends, Prissie dear?" she asked, leaning forward and resting her hand on Priscilla's arm. "Why, of course, Martine; that's why I came. You see it was all on account of that acid, or salts, or whatever you call it, and the ink-spot, and--yes--and Julius Cæsar." "Julius Cæsar?" For a moment Martine appeared to be mystified. "Oh, yes," she spoke with a smile, "Julius and the Roman scarf, and the other improvements that I made in the drawing-room. Mrs. Tilworth blamed you." "No, no, not for that. She knew I couldn't be so silly." "Thanks, my dear. Then she blamed me. To be honest, I had hardly thought about my misbehavior since then. I had a vague idea that you would go down before your aunt came in and restore things to their proper condition. Now I perceive I must apologize. It's written all over you that Mrs. Tilworth will believe me a reprobate until I do so. So that is why you have been so very stiff and Plymouthy this week. Oh, Prissie, Prissie!" Priscilla made no reply. Now, as always, she found it difficult to reply to Martine's teasing. "You must stay here to luncheon, Prissie," continued Martine, "and this afternoon we'll have some fun. You must have had a very dull week without me. Dear me, this drawer is too full," she continued, as she endeavored to close a drawer of her desk on the top of which she had just placed Brenda's letter. "Let me help you," and Priscilla rushed over to Martine's side, but between them they only managed to pull drawer and contents to the floor. "There, I will leave you to yourself, Prissie," said Martine; "you are better than I at straightening things out. I am going out to the dining-room to speak to Angelina."