"Yes, I am always well. Do you stay in-doors all the time and read? You must have a change, something to stir your nerves and brain, and infuse a new spirit in you." "I am too weak for exercise. Even carriage-riding tires me dreadfully. And my nerves cannot bear the least thing. I dread this wedding and all the tumult, only it will be excellent to have it finished up and off one's mind." Then she sighs and turns to her book again. "We are on a tour of discovery," says Floyd, rather gayly, as he moves forward. "The house seems quite new to me, and extremely interesting." She makes no effort to detain him. They turn into the hall, and a voice from above calls Floyd. "Oh, are you up here, Marcia?" beginning to ascend. "Yes. Here is my eyrie, my den, my study, or whatever name fits it best. I have a fancy for being high up. Nothing disturbs me. I have never been able, though, to decide which I really liked best, this or the tower. Only here I have three connecting rooms. Cecil, you little darling, come and kiss me! Floyd, I must paint that heavenly child! I have been doing a little at portraits. I want to take some lessons as soon as the ships come in. I hope you have brought fair weather, and--is it a high tide that floats the barque in successfully?" She utters all this in a breath, and makes a dash at Cecil, who buries her face in her father's coat-sleeve. "Cecil's kisses do not seem to be very plentiful," he remarks. "But how quaint and pretty you are up here!" The sleeping chamber is done up in white, gold, and blue, and in very tolerable order. This middle room is characteristic. The floor is of hard wood and oiled, and rugs of every description are scattered about. Easels with and without pictures, studies, paintings in oil and water-colors, bric-a-brac of every shape and kind, from pretty to ugly, a cabinet, some book-shelves, a wide, tempting lounge in faded raw silk, with immense, loose cushions, two tables full of litter, and several lounging chairs. Evidently Marcia is not of the severe order. The third room really beggars description. An easel stands before the window, with a pretentious canvas on which a winding river has made its appearance, but the dry land has not yet emerged from chaos. "You paint"--he begins, when she interrupts,-- "And now that you have come, Floyd, you can give me some advice. I was such a young idiot when I ran over Europe, but you have done it leisurely. Did you devote much time to French art? I can't decide which to make a specialty. The French are certainly better teachers, but why, then, do so many go to Rome? It is my dream." And she clasps her hands in a melodramatic manner. "What have you been doing?" he asks, as she pauses for breath. "I took up those things first," nodding to some flower pieces. "But every school-girl paints them." "These are exceedingly well done," he says, examining them closely.