“You don’t care for Rhoda; yet she has always been my favourite. Poor things!” she added in a lower tone, “isn’t it hard that they should have nothing in life to look forward to?” Hilda turned to draw Mrs. Clarendon’s attention to a picture. “Miss Warren has not come with you?” Kingcote asked, when there was again opportunity. “No; she kept at home. But the girls have just been surprising me. If you buy to-day’s _Tattler_ you’ll find something that she has written--a description--something about the river.” “Verse?” “No, prose. They are all in great excitement about it. I must get the paper; I don’t suppose she’ll send it to me.” Kingcote was much interested; he promised himself to read this contribution as soon as possible. When at length they reached the “Market Night,” it was very difficult to get a view of the canvas. But for Isabel a few glances were enough. “Oh, I don’t like that at all!” she exclaimed positively, moving away from the throng. “Those faces are disgusting. I should not like to have such a picture as that in my house.” “In that I agree with you,” Kingcote said. Hilda had also come away and was listening. “But it is a wonderful picture for all that.” “What a pity he paints such things! Why don’t you make him choose pleasant subjects?” “I imagine Gabriel’s answer if I said such a thing to him,” said Kingcote, smiling. “I suppose the artist must paint what he can and will; our likes and dislikes will not much affect him. But don’t you admire the skill and power, at all events?” Hilda went to look again, guided by this remark; she snapped up anything that seemed likely to instruct her taste with the eager voracity of a robin. But Isabel only shook her head and shuddered a little. “Is the other picture as bad?” she asked. “It’s just opposite; come and look.” This was the child in front of the shop-window. “No, not quite as bad,” was Isabel’s judgment. “But he has such a taste for low subjects. Why doesn’t he paint decent people?” “I’d rather keep clear of the gutter myself,” conceded her companion. “Still----” He did not conclude, and they crossed to the girls again. Shortly, Mrs. Clarendon met with a party of friends, and Kingcote drew away. A tall, heavy man of a military type bent insinuatingly as he talked to her; King-cote fretted at the sight. To avoid and forget it he joined Hilda Meres. The bright intelligence which made way through her shyness charmed him; possibly the extreme respect with which she received every word of his utterance did not diminish his interest in her. Rhoda scarcely spoke, but her smile, too, was very sweet. How he wished that his sister could have companions such as these! And, as Mary came into his mind--she sitting alone in her widow’s weeds--he felt impatient with the bright mob crushing about him. He did not need to be reminded, yet it reminded him again, how heartless the world is....