She touches upon his work with delicate praise and appreciation. It would seem that she kept herself informed of all he did, but she never questions him in any inquisitive manner. She is really intimate with the Latimers, so she hears, no doubt. It _will_ be charming to add her to the summer party. There are other delightful people for Violet to know as soon as she can begin to entertain society. Violet is not much troubled about society these pleasant days. April comes in blustering, then turns suddenly warm, and lo! the earth seems covered with velvet in the wonderful emerald green of spring. She hunts the woods for violets and anemones, and puts them in her father's room,--it is her room now, for she was very happy in it when her ankle was hurt. She moves out her few pictures, a lovely Mater Doloroso, whose grief is blended with heavenly resignation, and the ever-clear Huguenot Lovers. Both have been school gifts. For the rest, her girl's chamber was simple as any nun's. Marcia makes her second visit to Mr. Wilmarth, and leaves Dolly at home. Now there is a rather curious desire of secrecy on her part; the whole thing is so much more charming enveloped in mystery. Mr. Wilmarth receives her with a brusque sort of cordiality, as if he was rather striving against himself, and she sees it, as he means she shall. The drawings are satisfactory, and he expresses his obligation to her. "I don't know as I can summon up courage to offer you any ordinary payment," he says, "but if you will accept some gift in its stead,--if you will allow me to make it something beyond a mere business transaction----" "Oh, it is such a trifle," and Marcia's head takes its airy curve. "I think I should like----" "Well?" he asks, rather startled. "Please don't laugh at me," she begins, in a tone of girlish entreaty, which is not bad, "but I have been thinking--wondering if I could turn my gift to any advantage?" Marcia is really blushing now. It seems paltry to think of working for money, unless one could earn it by the hundreds. "Yes, I suppose you could," he replies, "but you have a genius for better things. You _can_ design very well," and he is in earnest now. "There are a great many branches. Why?" he asks, abruptly. "Oh," she replies, "I get so tired of the frivolity of life. I long to do something beyond the mere trifles." "I suppose you miss both of your sisters," he remarks, with a touch of sympathy. "You are learning now what loneliness is. Although there is your brother's wife----" "A child, a mere child, who can thrum a little on the piano and dress dolls for Cecil. I never _could_ understand _why_ Floyd married her." "There was the fortune," suggests Mr. Wilmarth. "Oh, Floyd did not care for that! You see he has had it all tied up so that he cannot touch it." "Those who tie can sometimes untie," he answers, dryly.