“I’ve had a wonderful visit. You’ve been delightful to me, dear Miss Carrington,” Helen said. “I hope you’ll rest and regain your strength. Come to visit me when I’m settled down. That will not be for some time, but come when I am established. I’ll be married at Christmas, if I can get things made by then. We may go abroad for the honeymoon; we have not settled our plans. But they will include a visit from you when I’m in my own house. Good-bye. Are you going to the station with us, nice Kit? That’s dear of you! Parting _is_ sweet sorrow, and this one will lead to a lovers’ meeting, I trust. Tell your brown lass that I congratulate her, though custom reserves congratulations to the man. Come, Father, I’m ready.” “Good-bye, Miss Carrington. Get strong fast,” said Helen’s father, looking annoyed. “Think over my prescription. I’ll guarantee your recovery if you follow it up. Good-bye.” Kit handed Helen into the car, put the bags in after Mr. Abercrombie, then got up beside Noble and they drove away. A good deal had happened since Helen had arrived. Kit realized that he was not the inexperienced boy who had greeted her. No sooner were they gone than Miss Carrington hastened upstairs, calling as she reached the top: “Minerva, Minerva, make haste!” “I do not think that you should go, Miss Carrington,” protested Minerva, ready with Miss Carrington’s hat, coat, and gloves. “Don’t you? Did you order a carriage?” asked her mistress. It appeared that Minerva had, though under protest, and Miss Carrington hurried her dressing. She bade the livery carriage driver to take her to Latham Street, and to wait. Miss Carrington appeared unexpectedly in Richard’s quiet room. She found him in his favourite chair, peacefully taking part in conversation with Ted Wilberforce and his sitter. The sitter was little Anne, costumed as the artist had planned, in a soft green silken gown that fell to her ankles. It was touched with dull gold to relieve it, and it had a white yoke, and a narrow white band around the slender throat. Her dark hair fell straight against her cheeks, and her hands, lying on her knees, held a rare old tooled leather “Book of Hours.” A dark carved chair of mediæval Italian design was her throne, and her little feet rested on a carved footstool. Her eyes were shining, for, to call into her face the expression that he wanted to paint, Ted Wilberforce had talked to her of poetry and of heavenly things. “Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Carrington, stopping short. She knew a great deal about pictures, and she saw that the picture before her was wonderfully beautiful, from both an artistic and a literary point of view. “Don’t let me interrupt, I beg,” she said, delight shining in her eyes. “When I lived in Paris I knew many of the artists and rejoiced in seeing pictures grow. But this one! Wilberforce or Carpaccio? And what do you call it?” “‛The Mystic,’ Miss Carrington,” said Wilberforce, resuming the brush that he had laid down.