And so the wires were being laid, and Everard stepped over and around them all unconsciously, and took the goods the gods provided for him, whether in the shape of Beatrice, or Rosamond, or his father’s uniform kindness toward him; and the September days went by, and October came, and found him a student at last in his father’s office, where he bent every energy to mastering the law and gaining his profession. There were no more long rides with Beatrice, and his mustang chafed and fretted and grew unmanageable for want of exercise. There were no more strolls in the leafy woods with Rossie, who gathered the nuts, and ferns and grasses alone, and rarely had Everard’s society except at meal-time, when she managed to post him with regard to all the details of her quiet, every-day life. She was reading Chateaubriand’s “Atala” in French, and found it rather stupid; or she was learning a new piece of music she knew he would like; or old Blue had six new kittens in his trunk up in the garret, and she wished him to go and see them. Everard was always interested in what interested Rosamond, and on no one did his glance rest so kindly as on this little old-fashioned girl, in whom there seemed to be no guile; but he had no leisure time to give her. It was his plan to get his profession as soon as possible, and then, taking Josephine, go to some new place in the far West, where he could grow up with the town, and perhaps be comparatively independent and happy. But his future had been ordered otherwise, and suddenly, without a note of warning, his house of cards came down, and buried him in its ruins. CHAPTER XV. THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. Everard had been in his father’s office five weeks or more, when, on a rainy morning early in November, just as he was settling himself to his books, and congratulating himself upon the luxury of a quiet day, his father came in, and after looking over the paper, and poking the fire vigorously, seated himself opposite his son, and began: “Everard, put down your book; I want to talk with you.” “Yes, sir,” Everard replied, closing the book and facing his father with an unaccountable dread that something unpleasant was coming. “It’s never my way to beat round the bush,” the judge began; “I come to the point at once, and so I want to know if you and Bee have settled it yet?” “Settled what?” Everard asked; and his father replied: