Dad had actually bought a new coat and had cut his hair, which Polly owned was a grief to her; 'and his beard looked like everybody else's beard,' wrote the girl with a groan. If it had not been for his snuff-box she would hardly have known him. Some dealer had bought his _Cain_, and the old man's empty pockets were replenished. It was a real joy to Olive's affectionate heart to know that Roy's juvenile efforts were appreciated by so great a man. Mildred, who was almost as simple in worldly matters as her niece, was also a devout believer in Dad Fabian's capabilities. The dark-lined picture of Cain fleeing from his avenging conscience, with his weeping guardian angel by his side, had made a great impression on her. Olive and she had long talks over Polly's rapid scrawls. Roy had genius, and was to be an artist after all. He was to enter a London studio after Christmas. Dad Fabian knew the widow of an artist living near Hampstead who would board and lodge him, and look after him as though he were a son of her own; and Dad Fabian himself was to act as his sponsor, art-guide, and chaperon. 'My guardian thinks very highly of Dad,' wrote Polly, in her pretty, childish handwriting. 'He calls him an unappreciated genius, and says Roy will be quite safe under his care. Dad is a little disappointed Roy's forte is landscape painting; he wanted him to go in for high art; but Roy paints clouds better than faces.' 'Dear Roy, how we shall miss him!' sighed Olive, as she laid the letter down. 'Polly more than any one,' observed Mildred, thinking how strange it would be to see one bright face without the other close to it. The new curate was rather a tame affair after this. 'His name is Hugh Marsden, and he is to live at Miss Farrer's, the milliner,' announced Olive one day, when she had received a letter from Richard. 'Miss Farrer has two very nice rooms looking over the market-place. Her last lodger was a young engineer, and it made a great difference to her income when he left her. Richard says he is a "Queen's man, and a very nice fellow;" he is only in deacon's orders.' 'Let us see what Chriss has to say about him in her letter,' returned Mildred; but she contemplated a little ruefully the crabbed, irregular writing, every word looking like a miniature edition of Contradiction Chriss herself. 'Mr. Marsden has arrived,' scrawled Chriss, 'and has just had tea here. I don't think we shall like him at all. Roy says he is a jolly fellow, and is fond of cricket and fishing, and those sort of things, but he looks too much like a big boy for my taste; I don't like such large young men; and he has big hands and feet and a great voice, and his laugh is as big as the rest of him. I think him dreadfully ugly, but Polly says "No, he has nice honest eyes."