'My dearest brother Roy,' it began--never had she called him that before--'I have never written to thank you for your note. It was a dear, kind note, and I love you for writing it; do not be afraid of my misunderstanding or thinking you unkind; you could not be that to any one. I am so thankful your poor foot is better; it has been terrible to think of your suffering all this time. I am so afraid it must have interfered with your painting, and that you have not got on well with the picture you began when you were here. Roy, dear, you must promise to work at it harder than ever, and as soon as you are able. I am sure it will be the best picture you have ever done, and I have set my heart on seeing it in the Academy next year; but unless you work your hardest, there will be no chance of that. I have asked Dad Fabian to come and lecture you. You and he must have one of your clever art-talks, and then you must get out your palette and brushes, and set to work on that pretty little girl's red cloak. 'Do, Roy--do, my dear brother. Your loving friend, POLLY. 'Be kind to Dad Fabian. Make much of the dear old man. Remember he is Polly's friend.' It was the morning after the receipt of this letter, so Richard informed Mildred, that Roy crept languidly from the sofa, where he spent most of his days, and sat for a long time fixedly regarding the unfinished canvas before him. Richard made no observation, and shortly left the room. When he returned an hour afterwards, Roy was working at a child's drapery, with compressed lips and frowning brow. He tossed back his fair hair with the old irritable movement as his brother smiled approval. 'Well done, Roy; there is nothing like making a beginning after all.' 'I hate it as much as ever,' was the sullen answer. 'I am only doing it because--she told me--and I don't mean to disappoint her. I am her slave; she might put her pretty foot on my neck if she liked. Ah, Polly, Polly, what a poor fool you have made of me.' And Roy put his head on the easel, and fairly groaned. But there was no shirking labour after that. Roy spent long moody hours over his work, while Richard sat by with his books. An almost unbroken silence prevailed in the young artist's studio. 'The sweet whistler' in Dr. Heriot's little glass-house no longer existed; a half-stifled sigh, or an ejaculation of impatience, only reached Richard's ears from time to time; but Roy seemed to have no heart for conversation,--nothing interested him, his attention flagged after the first few minutes. Richard was obliged to go back to Oxford at the beginning of the term; but Dad Fabian took his place. Mildred learnt to her dismay that the old man was located at the cottage, at Roy's own wish, and was likely to remain for some weeks. How Mildred's heart sank at the news; her plan had fallen to the ground; the change and quiet for which she was pining were indefinitely postponed.