“Mr. Derwent doesn’t want me to stay in the Park. He thinks there is other work I can do. He cared a great deal for my father, and for his sake he will take care of me and guide me, he says, if I will be obedient.” The speaker lifted her eyes again to those which studied her. “It’s easy to be obedient to pleasant orders, isn’t it? He wants to send me right back to Boston.” She paused, and Irving nodded with satisfaction. “I quite understand,” she went on quietly, “why he wishes me to go a little ahead of your party.” Irving frowned. “It’s all right. I have felt very much humiliated—” she went on. “Absurd, ridiculous,” interjected Irving hotly; but she finished her sentence as if he had not spoken. “Betsy says I am a vine, and wish too much to cling, and haven’t backbone enough; but Mr. Derwent’s interest puts backbone into me. I feel that surely there is a place for me somewhere—” “Where,” interrupted her companion, “where in Boston are you going?” “He will take care of it all, he says. Isn’t it wonderful? I don’t wonder that he loved my father.” The girl’s eyes shone. “He says that they were very close at one time, and that old friends can never be replaced. It makes me think of what Holmes said:— “‘There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise: Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold; But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold!’” The girlish voice was like music above the smothered roar of many waters. As Irving listened and looked, he understood the warmth of Mrs. Bruce’s brief enthusiasm. There was a pause, and the two feasted their eyes upon the glories before them. “It is absurd that you shouldn’t go back to Boston with us,” said Irving at last. “I’d much rather not, Mr. Bruce. I fear if Mr. Derwent had insisted on that, I should have rebelled. You are kind to take an interest—” “An interest!” burst forth Irving, and arrested himself. He smiled. “Didn’t I pick you off that cliff a few minutes ago?” She looked at him with an expression which nearly banished his self-control. “We don’t hear much about man-angels,” she said, “but you looked like one to me at that moment—one of Botticelli’s—you know how ready they always look to scowl?” She laughed softly. “I was furious with you,” said Irving. “So remember I have part interest in you after this. Mr. Derwent is all very well, but— “‘There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days.’ These are our morning days, Rosalie.” “Yes, and the morning hours of them,” she agreed. “Since I knew I was to leave to-day I felt I could not waste the time in sleeping. I wanted—oh! how I wanted—how I have dreamed of seeing the sun rise in this canyon! Perhaps,” she looked at him wistfully, “perhaps it would have been my last sunrise but for you.”