It was now nearly a year since Jean herself had been a pupil at the art school. She had gone into the work enthusiastically when they had lived at the Cove on Long Island, making the trip back and forth every day on the train. Then had come her father’s breakdown and the need of the Robbins’ finding a new nest in the hills where expenses were light. As she turned the familiar street with Bab, and came in sight of the gray stone building, she couldn’t help feeling just a little thrill of regret. It represented so much to her, all the aims and ambitions of a year before. As they passed upstairs to Bab’s classroom, some of the girls recognized her and called out a greeting. Jean waved her hand to them, but did not stop. She was too busy looking at the sketches along the walls, listening to the familiar sounds through open doors, Daddy Higginson’s deeply rounded laugh; Miss Patmore’s clear voice calling to one of the girls; Valleé, the lame Frenchman, standing with his arm thrown about a lad’s shoulders, pointing out to him mistakes in underlay of shadows. Even the familiar smell of turpentine and paint made her lift her nose as Princess did to her oats. “Valleé’s so brave,” Bab found time to say, arranging her crayons and paper on her drawing board. “Do you remember the girl from the west who only wanted to paint marines, Marion Poole? Well, she joined Miss Patmore’s Maine class last summer and Valleé went along too, as instructor. She’s about twenty-four, you know, older than most of us, but Miss Patmore says she really has genius. Anyway, she was way out on the rocks painting and didn’t go back with the class. And the tide came in. Valleé went after her, and they say he risked his life swimming out to save her when he was lame. They’re married now. See her over there with the green apron on? They’re giving a costume supper Saturday night and we’ll go.” “I haven’t anything to wear,” Jean said hastily. “Mother’ll fix you up. She always can,” Bab told her comfortably. “Let’s speak to Miss Patmore before class. She’s looking at you.” Margaret Patmore was the girls’ favorite teacher. The daughter of an artist herself, she had been born in Florence, Italy, and brought up there, later living in London and then Boston. Jean remembered how delightful her noon talks with her girls had been of her father’s intimate circle of friends back in Browning’s sunland. It had seemed so interesting to link the past and present with one who could remember, as a little girl, visits to all the art shrines. Jean had always been a favorite with her. The quiet, imaginative girl had appealed to Margaret Patmore perhaps because she had the gift of visualizing the past and its great dreamers. She took both her hands now in a firm clasp, smiling down at her. “Back again, Jean?” “Only for a week or two, Miss Patmore,” Jean smiled, a little wistfully. “I wish it were for longer. It seems awfully good to be here and see you all.”