He could not have said anything else so likely to reach her heart. She remembered the last faltering words she had heard as she bent over the pillow when the sun was shining on the golden tree with the wind waving its branches. "Don't do no one a onjestice, honey--don't ye--do no one--a onjestice." "Oh," she cried out, "he told me that I must not--he told me, before he died!" "What!" said Ferrol. "He told you not to be unjust to _me_?" "It was you he meant," she answered. "He knew I had been hard to you--and he knew I----" She cowered down a little and Ferrol folded her in his arms. "Don't be hard to me again," he whispered. "I have been so unhappy--I love you so tenderly. Did he know that you--speak to me, Louise." She put her hand upon his shoulder. "He knew that I loved you," she said, with a little sob. She was a great favorite among her husband's friends in New York the next year. One of her chief attractions for them was that she was a "new type." They said that of her invariably when they delighted in her and told each other how gentle she was and how simple and sweet. The artists made "studies" of her, and adored her, and were enthusiastic over her beauty; while among the literary ones it was said, again and again, what a foundation she would be for a heroine of the order of those who love and suffer for love's sake and grow more adorable through their pain. But these, of course, were only the delightful imaginings of art, talked over among themselves, and Louisiana did not hear of them. She was very happy and very busy. There was a gay joke current among them that she was a most tremendous book-worm, and that her literary knowledge was something for weak, ordinary mortals to quail before. The story went, that by some magic process she committed to memory the most appalling works half an hour after they were issued from the press, and that, secretly, Laurence stood very much in awe of her and was constantly afraid of exposing his ignorance in her presence. It was certainly true that she read a great deal, and showed a wonderful aptness and memory, and that Laurence's pride and delight in her were the strongest and tenderest feelings of his heart. Almost every summer they spent in North Carolina, filling their house with those of their friends who would most enjoy the simple quiet of the life they led. There were numberless pictures painted among them at such times and numberless new "types" discovered. "But you'd scarcely think," it was said sometimes, "that it is here that Mrs. Laurence is on her native heath." And though all the rest of the house was open, there was one room into which no one but Laurence and Louisiana ever went--a little room, with strange, ugly furniture in it, and bright-colored lithographs upon the walls. END.