A busy, anxious, humdrum winter, for, as Harry said, “it was hard times for every one.” Mr. Dean grew gray with the weight of business cares about which he never spoke; Mrs. Dean, laboring under the delusion that an invalid was a necessary appendage to the family, installed herself in the place the child’s death left vacant, and the boys needed much comforting, for the poor lads never knew how much they loved “the baby” till the little chair stood empty. All turned to Sy for help and consolation, and her strength seemed to increase with the demand upon it. Patience and cheerfulness, courage and skill came at her call like good fairies who had bided their time. Housekeeping ceased to be hateful, and peace reigned in parlor and kitchen while Mrs. Dean, shrouded in shawls, read Hahnemann’s Lesser Writings on her sofa. Mr. Dean sometimes forgot his mills when a bright face came to meet him, a gentle hand smoothed the wrinkles out of his anxious forehead, and a daughterly heart sympathized with all his cares. The boys found home very pleasant with Sy always there ready to “lend a hand,” whether it was to make fancy ties, help conjugate “a confounded verb,” pull candy, or sing sweetly in the twilight when all thought of little May and grew quiet. The studio door remained locked till her brothers begged Psyche to open it and make a bust of the child. A flush of joy swept over her face at the request, and her patient eyes grew bright and eager, as a thirsty traveller’s might at the sight or sound of water. Then it faded as she shook her head, saying with a regretful sigh, “I’m afraid I’ve lost the little skill I ever had.” But she tried, and with great wonder and delight discovered that she could work as she had never done before. She thought the newly found power lay in her longing to see the little face again; for it grew like magic under her loving hands, while every tender memory, sweet thought, and devout hope she had ever cherished, seemed to lend their aid. But when it was done and welcomed with tears and smiles, and praise more precious than any the world could give, then Psyche said within herself, like one who saw light at last,— “He was right; doing one’s duty _is_ the way to feed heart, soul, and imagination; for if one is good, one is happy, and if happy, one can work well.” III. “She broke her head and went home to come no more,” was Giovanni’s somewhat startling answer when Paul asked about Psyche, finding that he no longer met her on the stairs or in the halls. He understood what the boy meant, and with an approving nod turned to his work again, saying, “I like that! If there is any power in her, she has taken the right way to find it out, I suspect.”