Evelyn jumped up, threw herself into her mother's lap, and began to smooth her hair and pet her. “I'm awfully glad. I'd ever so much rather stay in than come out. Yes, dear little mother.” “Little?” “Yes.” And the girl pulled her mother from her chair, and made her stand up to measure. “See, McDonald, almost an inch taller than mamma, and when I do my hair on top!” “And see, mamma”--the girl was pirouetting on the floor--“I can do those steps you do. Isn't it Spanish?” “Rather Spanish-American, I guess. This is the way.” Evelyn clapped her hands. “Isn't that lovely!” “You are only a little brownie, after all.” Her mother was holding her at arm's--length and studying her critically, wondering if she would ever be handsome. The girl was slender, but not tall. Her figure had her mother's grace, but not its suggestion of yielding suppleness. She was an undoubted brunette--complexion olive, hair very dark, almost black except in the sunlight, and low on her forehead-chin a little strong, and nose piquant to say the least of it. Certainly features not regular nor classic. The mouth, larger than her mother's, had full lips, the upper one short, and admirable curves, strong in repose, but fascinating when she smiled. A face not handsome, but interesting. And the eyes made you hesitate to say she was not handsome, for they were large, of a dark hazel and changeable, eyes that flashed with merriment, or fell into sadness under the long eyelashes; and it would not be safe to say that they could not blaze with indignation. Not a face to go wild about, but when you felt her character through it, a face very winning in its dark virgin purity. “I do wonder where she came from?” Mrs. Mavick was saying to herself, as she threw herself upon a couch in her own room and took up the latest Spanish novel. IX Celia Howard had been, in a way, Philip's inspiration ever since the days when they quarreled and made up on the banks of the Deer field. And a fortunate thing for him it was that in his callow years there was a woman in whom he could confide. Her sympathy was everything, even if her advice was not always followed. In the years of student life and preparation they had not often met, but they were constant and painstaking correspondents. It was to her that he gave the running chronicle of his life, and poured out his heart and aspirations. Unconsciously he was going to school to a woman, perhaps the most important part of his education. For, though in this way he might never hope to understand woman, he was getting most valuable knowledge of himself.