"I need them," she answered; and then she added, impulsively: "Do you know all that has been said of me--all?" Mrs. Ryder drew herself up with a slow, gracious movement. "But it is not true," she said. "No, it is not true," repeated Mariana. The other smiled and held out her hand. "I want you to come to luncheon with me," she said. "I shall be alone to-morrow. Will you come?" "Yes," Mariana responded, "to-morrow." And after Mrs. Ryder had gone she sat down at her desk and wrote a note. "You must not talk to me again as you did last evening," it said. "I have told you so before, but I may not have seemed in earnest. Now I am in earnest, and you must not--you shall not do it. I know it has been a great deal my fault, and I am sorry for it. Indeed, you must believe that I did not think of its coming to this." Then she sealed it and gave it to the servant to mail, after which she went up-stairs and talked to Miss Ramsey until dinner. The next day she went to Mrs. Ryder's, and they sat down to luncheon at a small round table and talked as women talk in whom feeling is predominant over thought, and to whom life represents a rhythmic series of emotions rather than waves of mental evolution. They spoke in low, almost affectionate voices, conscious of one of those sudden outreaches of sympathy to which women are subject. When luncheon was over they went up to the nursery, and Mariana knelt upon the floor and romped with the child, who pulled her loosened hair, uttering shrill shrieks of delight. At last she rose hurriedly, and Mrs. Ryder saw that a tear trembled on her lashes. The elder woman's heart expanded. "You have had a child?" she asked, softly. "Yes." "And lost it?" "Yes, I lost it." Mrs. Ryder's eyes grew soft. "I am so sorry for you," she said. The tear on Mariana's lashes fell upon her hand. "It was eight years ago," she said. "That is a long time, but I suppose one never entirely forgets." "No," answered the other, "one never forgets." She stooped suddenly, and, lifting her child, kissed it passionately. Several mornings after this Mariana's carriage stopped before Nevins's studio, and Mariana got out and ascended the long flight of stairs. In response to the fall of the brass knocker, the door was opened and Nevins greeted her reproachfully. "Are you aware," he demanded, gravely, "that there has been sufficient time for the appearance of a wrinkle since your last sitting?" "Portraits don't have wrinkles," returned Mariana, cheerfully, entering and unfastening her coat; "nor do I." She removed her hat and gave an impatient little fluff to her hair. "Do I look well?" she asked. "Were you ever otherwise to me?" rejoined Nevins, in impassioned protest. Mariana turned from him with a slight shrug of her shoulders. "For the last week," she said, "I have had a horrible cold. It made my eyes red and my nose also. That is why I stayed away." "And plunged me into a seven days' despair--for a cold."