“But something has come over the spirit of his dream,” he said to Edith, when talking of him. “Ever since he came from visiting those friends of his he has fits of melancholy and acts a good deal like a man in love, but when I put it to him he denied it indignantly, and said no girl whom he would have would ever marry him, and then he went straight off to see the little Westbrooke who threw you that bouquet, you know. He is wonderfully struck with her, and wants to paint her portrait as a fancy piece, and call it ‘_La petite sœur_;’ but that Rogers dame guards her pet like an old she-dragon, and will not let Gertie sit on any account, even though I promised to be present at the sittings and see that fair play was done.” Edith smiled derisively, and felt that she did not blame Mrs. Rogers for objecting to Godfrey Schuyler, with his saucy eyes and teasing ways, as a protector for her child. The little girl was going out with them, Godfrey said, and maybe Bob could study her a little on the ship. He had made two or three sketches of her already, drawing from his memory, of course, but none of them quite suited him. He must have her sit to him, and he,—Godfrey,—thought it a shame for that Rogers woman to be so much afraid of having her _protégée_ looked at by such nice chaps as himself and Bob! Edith had never fairly seen the child whom Robert Macpherson desired as a model for “_La Sœur_,” but she felt a deep interest in her, both for the blessing sent on her bridal day, and because of the strong affection the child had inspired in Mrs. Barrett, who seemed to feel worse at the thought of parting with her than with Edith herself. The first meeting between mother and daughter had been rather cool and constrained, for Edith had lost confidence in her parent’s integrity, and could not help showing it. Still she was about to leave her, and at the last, when she went to say good-by, her manner softened greatly, for in spite of all it was her mother whom she kissed with many tears, and who herself broke down and cried, when the last farewell was said, and Edith went from her door forever. But Mrs. Barrett did not sob as pitifully then as when an hour later Gertie Westbrooke came and hung about her neck so lovingly, and said: “I am sorry to leave you alone. I wish you would go too.” Edith had not said that; Edith did not wish it, and Mrs. Barrett knew why, but it hurt her none the less, and Gertie’s fond regrets and words of love were very dear to her. “I shall never forget you, never; and, maybe, if I am ever married, you shall live with me, and be my grandma,” Gertie said, with a dim perception that her friend’s heart was sore with a longing to go with her daughter, who did not want her; and then Mrs. Barrett sobbed aloud, and held the girl close to her bosom, and said: