“If only Miss Braithwaite would come back!” thought Cis. “I’d go away and he’d do something sensible with himself! All I can do now is to hold him down, and hold him off, but I’m really beginning to be afraid it’s bad for him.” One bright, frosty afternoon, when the earth was white and the sky brilliantly blue, Cis went off alone to walk in the park. A homesick spell was upon her; she was homesick for Miss Braithwaite, for the shadowy library and its glowing hearth; for Mr. Lucas’ office and its interests, the clever, keen men who came there talking of great matters; her sense of being part of a world moved by levers hidden in that office. And she wondered why it was that for some time she had heard no word of Anselm Lancaster. He had written her several pleasant letters, had sent her a book at Christmas that was a delight to brain and eye. He had wished her a Happy New Year with a graceful note and a lovely little Florentine print in colors, framed in dull, dark, carved wood; a Botticelli Madonna surrounded by square-chinned, deep-eyed angels in tunics, upon which their square-trimmed locks fell at shoulder length, while their long fingers clasped tall candles that revealed to the world a Babe upon His Mother’s knee. There was growing in Cicely a discontent that she could not down; she grappled with it, hating it, for no mood had ever mastered her, nor greatly annoyed her heretofore, and this restlessness was annoying; it got between her and her daily life; her prayers; between her and herself, her true self, brave and blithe and courageous. She wanted to walk briskly in the pretty park and think out what was wrong with her, take herself to task, and scotch the head of this miserable little asp gnawing at her. But hardly had she gone half the width of the park, its longest way, than there was Tom Dowling, coming rapidly toward her, his face illumined, his right arm saluting her. “Oh, me!” sighed Cis inwardly. “Who wants a human being omnipresent? Hello, Tom!” she said aloud. “How do you happen to be here at a time when all honest folk are at work?” “Nothing dishonest about me, Cis,” said Tom, joining her and turning to walk beside her as a matter of course. “Why, I got the afternoon, and I went to the house. Nan said you’d gone to the park. I went around the other way; thought you’d take the north gate. Anyhow, I’ve found you!” The satisfaction in Tom’s voice was complete. “Yes, Tom, but--” Cis hesitated.