The second winter in Boston was more wonderful than the first. Esther was becoming accustomed to being a rich young woman and the perquisites of such a position. The city friends were agreeable, occasional evenings at concerts, the theater and even the opera less of a marvelous novelty than at first, although not less enjoyable. She enjoyed the week-ends at Harniss also, but she no longer looked forward to them as oases in a desert of homesickness. She saw her Aunt Reliance and Millard less frequently, not from design, but because her Uncle Foster had always so many plans for those week-ends that she had scarce time to run down to the cottage or the millinery shop. She was less eager to hear the village gossip, less interested in the doings of the townspeople. She heard scraps of it occasionally, of course. Frank Cahoon was at home again, the Boston firm of shipping merchants having decided to risk continuing in business without his valuable aid. Once Millard happened to mention the incident of the runaway and it reminded him of young Griffin. “He’s gone to New York to study paintin’, I understand,” said Mr. Clark. “Not house paintin’--no, no, he could learn that just as well or better in Denboro. He’s set on paintin’ pictures, so a Denboro feller told me. Old ’Lisha Cook, his grand-dad, was down on the notion, says he never saw a picture yet that was worth the nail to hang it on, nor a picture painter that was fit for much _but_ hangin’. He wanted Bob to stick to college--he was up to Yale, or some such place. However, the boy had some money of his own--left him by his father’s folks, they say--so ’Lisha didn’t feel he could stand in the way of his spendin’ it even on craziness. ‘Let him daub till he daubs away his last dollar,’ says the old man. ‘Then maybe he’ll be willin’ to go to work at somethin’ sensible.’” The mention of her rescuer’s name caused Esther a momentary thrill of interest. For a month or two after the eventful afternoon of the horse trot she had thought of Bob Griffin a good deal. He was a good-looking youth and he had--well, perhaps not saved her life, exactly, like the hero of a story--but his handling of the runaway span had been almost, if not quite, heroic. At any rate it was the nearest thing to heroism she had known. There was a romantic tinge to the whole affair which was pleasing to remember and she had remembered it for a time. Of late, however, there had been other near romances. There was a young fellow at the Conservatory who was nice--very nice; and still another who would have called if Mrs. Carter had permitted masculine callers. Bob’s romance was a thing of the distant past. It happened when she was a girl in the country. Now she was a city young lady with, or so every one prophesied, a career before her. It interested her to know that Bob Griffin was also seeking a career, but the interest was vague and casual.