His feet carried him he knew not whither. In the late twilight he found himself before the splendid Wareham mansion. He was vexed that he had not been able to get that kitten and send it to Milly in a big box of pink roses, like the roses in the old garden. Then he was vexed that he had not thought to send her the roses anyhow, as soon as he had found he could not get the kitten. Then he opened the gate, walked springily in and rang the bell. Yes, Miss Wareham was at home. The warm lamp-light which had led him in shone from the room into which he was ushered. Milly was reading by the lamp itself. She rose to greet him. Her yellow satin gown became her well and her voice was sweet to his ears. Her words were cordial. But what Jack noticed to the exclusion of everything else was the very black kitten he had failed to purchase, tucked under her arm, purring vociferously, and very becoming, it seemed to his eyes, to the color of her dress. The instant he saw it he knew what he meant to say to her. And the look in her eyes told him almost as plainly as the pet she fondled what her answer would be. [Illustration] [Illustration: HERE AND THERE IN MARYLAND BY EDWARD G. McDOWELL.] [Illustration: _Near Pen-Mar, Western Maryland Railroad._] [Illustration: _Old Mill Race, Walbrook._] [Illustration: _Near Annapolis._] [Illustration: _In Green Spring Valley._] [Illustration: _The Old Liberty Road._] [Illustration: _Tred Avon River._] [Illustration: _On Gwynn’s Falls._] [Illustration: _Smith’s Lane, Walbrook._] [Illustration: HOW RANDALL GOT INTO THE SALON] It was fully a minute before Joe Randall could summon up his courage to knock. He was ordinarily a phlegmatic Englishman, not easily moved, but to-day he was out of breath from an exceptionally long walk, and the excitement which invariably attends the first visit of an inconsequential young art student to the studio of a world-renowned painter. At length he resolutely pulled himself together and rapped. He received in reply a command, rather than an invitation, to enter. In obedience to the imperative summons he slowly pushed the massive door ajar and the next instant perceived he was standing in the actual, awful presence of the famous Master. The shock produced on him by the sudden change from the comparative darkness of the hall to the fierce, out-of-door light of the studio, blinded and troubled him nearly as much as did the contrast of his own littleness and poverty with the evidences of oppressive affluence and power before him. In his confusion a large, weather-beaten canvas, ill-tied and wrapped in an old journal, which he had carried under his arm all the way over from the Latin Quarter to far-away Montmartre, slipped from its flimsy envelope and fell with a resounding bang upon the floor, thereby adding to his already great embarrassment. He stooped nervously to pick it up, giving vent at the same time to a half audible “_Bon jour!_”