“She is so romantic, my dear,” answered Mrs. Leland, with a sigh. “I am afraid she takes after an uncle on her father’s side, who wrote poetry and wore a velvet jacket and ran away with an Italian countess who used to get drunk. When I married Mr. Leland people said he was not worthy of me, and that I was throwing myself away—and he in business, too! But Margaret is so romantic. There was Mr. Walters, the gentleman farmer, and Simpson who had a jeweller’s shop—I never approved of him!—and Mr. Samuelson, and the Hon. William Scott. She tired of them all except the Hon. William Scott, who tired of her because some one told him she put belladonna in her eyes—and it is not true; and now there is Mr. Sims!” She then cried a little, and allowed herself to be consoled by Mrs. Sherman. “You talk so intelligently and are so well informed,” she said at parting. “I have made a very pleasant call,” and the caddis-worm toiled upon its way, arriving in due course at other cups of tea. III. The day after Mrs. Leland’s call upon his mother, John Sherman, returning home after his not very lengthy day in the office, saw Margaret coming towards him. She had a lawn tennis racket under her arm, and was walking slowly on the shady side of the road. She was a pretty girl with quite irregular features, who though really not more than pretty, had so much manner, so much of an air, that every one called her a beauty: a trefoil with the fragrance of a rose. “Mr. Sherman,” she cried, coming smiling to meet him, “I have been ill, but could not stand the house any longer. I am going to the Square to play tennis. Will you come with me?” “I am a bad player,” he said. “Of course you are,” she answered; “but you are the only person under a hundred to be found this afternoon. How dull life is!” she continued, with a sigh. “You heard how ill I have been? What do you do all day?” “I sit at a desk, sometimes writing, and sometimes, when I get lazy, looking up at the flies. There are fourteen on the plaster of the ceiling over my head. They died two winters ago. I sometimes think to have them brushed off, but they have been there so long now I hardly like to.” “Ah! you like them,” she said, “because you are accustomed to them. In most cases there is not much more to be said for our family affections, I think.” “In a room close at hand,” he went on, “there is, you know, Uncle Michael, who never speaks.” “Precisely. You have an uncle who never speaks; I have a mother who never is silent. She went to see Mrs. Sherman the other day. What did she say to her?” “Nothing.” “Really. What a dull thing existence is!”—this with a great sigh. “When the Fates are weaving our web of life some mischievous goblin always runs off with the dye-pot. Everything is dull and grey. Am I looking a little pale? I have been so very ill.” “A little bit pale, perhaps,” he said, doubtfully.