When the hour came for her to join them, all her listlessness departed, and she was her own bright self once more; and when, in answer to her gentle knock upon his door, Archibald Sherbrooke opened it to admit her, he thought she had never seemed so lovely before. He had begun to realize that the feelings with which he regarded her were something deeper and stronger than mere friendship called for—in fact, he knew that he loved her more dearly than any other object on earth, and that his heart had not really been his own, if the truth were known, since that day when they had parted on the steamer; and he had that morning come to the conclusion that the time should not be far distant when he should tell her in words of the emotions she had awakened in his heart. “This is a pleasure that I had not anticipated until about an hour ago,” he said, with a brilliant smile, as he took her by the hand and led her into the room, where she found Mr. Rosevelt reclining comfortably in a luxurious chair. “And this,” Star said, looking around her with a long-drawn breath of delight as she noted the many beautiful paintings hanging on the walls, “is a pleasure which I had not anticipated.” “Ah! then it is my _work_ which shall give you pleasure, rather than my _society_, as I had presumed to flatter myself,” the young man said, ruefully, and making a comical grimace, although his eyes were looking down into hers with an expression which made her tremble. She laughed, while a lovely color leaped to her face. But she tried to hide her embarrassment by retorting, archly: “I suppose I must be polite, and affirm that I expect to enjoy both; but really, Mr. Sherbrooke, although I knew you were an artist, I had no idea that you painted such delightful things.” “You give me more credit than belongs to me,” he answered, smiling; “but wait until you are rested, and then I have something in particular to show you.” “Oh, I am not weary. Let me look now, if you please; we have only an hour, you know;” and she began to move about the room, examining with no uncritical eye the works upon the walls. The young artist kept by her side, telling her the subjects of the paintings, and relating many instances connected with them. At length they came to a corner where there stood an easel, upon which there was a picture covered with a green cloth. Mr. Sherbrooke removed the covering, simply saying: “This is the picture that I particularly wished to show you.” It was quite a large painting, and represented a young man and maiden standing on board a steamer, while silver-tipped waves and a deep blue sky formed a charming background for their youthful figures. The former stood in an eager attitude, with one hand extended, a smile on his handsome lips, a gleam of wistful admiration in his honest brown eyes, while his companion seemed to be clipping a tress from a massive braid of shining golden hair that hung over her shoulders.