'What a Bohemian you are, Polly.' 'I like what is best and brightest and most loveable in life,' returned Polly, undauntedly. 'I think you are an artist by nature, because you care so much for beautiful scenery, and are so quick to see different shades and tints of colouring. Dad Fabian is older, and grander, far--but you talk a little like him, Roy; your words have the same ring, somehow.' 'Polly is a devout believer in Roy's capabilities,' observed Dr. Heriot, half-seriously and half-laughing. 'You are fortunate, Roy, to have inspired so much faith already; it must warm up your landscapes and brighten your horizons for you. After all, there is nothing like sympathy in this world,' with a scarcely audible sigh. 'Dr. Heriot, tea is ready,' broke in Polly, with one of her quick transitions from enthusiasm to matter-of-fact reality, as she moved as though by right to her place at the head of the table, and looked as though she expected her guardian to seat himself as usual beside her; while Dr. Heriot drew up a comfortable rocking-chair for Mildred. Certainly the den presented a cheerful aspect to-night; the little glass-house, as Dr. Heriot generally termed it, with its easel and flowers, and its pleasant glimpse of the narrow garden and blue hills behind, looked picturesque in the afternoon light; the rain had ceased, the canaries burst into loud song, there was a delicious fragrance of verbena and heliotrope; Roy stretched his lazy length on the little red couch, his fair head in marked contrast with Mildred's brown coils; a great crimson-hearted rose lay beside her plate. Dr. Heriot's den certainly lacked no visible comfort; there were easy-chairs for lounging, small bookcases filled with favourite books, a writing-table, and a marble stand, with a silver reading-lamp, that gave the softest possible light; one or two choice prints enlivened the walls. Dr. Heriot evidently kept up a luxurious bachelor's life, for the table was covered with good things; and Mildred ventured to praise the excellent Westmorland cakes. 'Marjory makes better girdle-cakes than Nan,' observed Polly. 'Do you know what my guardian calls them, Aunt Milly?' 'You should allow Miss Lambert to finish hers first,' remonstrated Dr. Heriot. 'He calls them "sudden deaths."' 'Miss Lambert is looking quite pale, and laying down hers. I must help myself to some to reassure her;' and Dr. Heriot suited his action to his words. 'I perfectly scandalise Marjory by telling her they are very unwholesome, but she only says, "Hod tongue o' ye, doctor; t' kyuks are au weel enuff; en'ill hurt nin o' ye, if y'ill tak 'em i' moderation."' 'I think Marjory is much of a muchness with Nan in point of obstinacy.' 'Nan's habits bewilder me,' observed Mildred. 'She eats so little flesh meat, as she calls it; and whatever time I go into the kitchen, she seems perpetually at tea.'