“I’m just as surprised as you are, Jean--and it isn’t fair, of course; but Fanny likes to think herself the instrument of Providence. I hope she is!” His high spirits evoked no response at once. She was on guard against him, and not lightly to be won to the plane of happiness to which her coming had lifted him. He sat down facing her by the broad windows whence the eye was led as from a hill-top to the horizon. He asked about her later experiences, and they took account of each other soberly as they talked. The changes in both were marked. She was now a successful artist, whose work was a feature of the periodical that lay on the window-ledge beside her. Her hat and gown bore the metropolitan accent--no hint here of the girl he accosted so long ago before Sargent’s picture! It was difficult to resist the appeal in his eyes, that were wonderfully clear and straightforward and earnest behind the happiness that shone in them. When she had answered his questions as to her southwestern experiences silence fell between them. She was afraid to ask about himself, for fear of replies that might lead to dangerous ground. She glanced over her shoulder toward the door uneasily. “Oh, Fanny isn’t going yet! She has a lot to tell John,” he laughed. “Mrs. Blair is going to New York with me to-night. That’s why I stopped here.” “Did she say she was going to New York to-night? Well, she isn’t!” “Her trunk’s at the station; she usually knows what she’s doing, doesn’t she?” “Well, usually; but not this time--for the reason that she can’t leave you here after asking you to stop, and you----” “I have an engagement at the _Hemisphere_ office at noon to-morrow,” she replied, determined not to be disarmed by his bantering tone. “Oh, they will wait! Everybody waits for illustrators--they’re the autocrats of the publishing business.” “I make a point of keeping my word, Mr. Craighill,” she remarked severely. He rose with an abruptness that startled her. “Jean, we are wasting time, you and I. You didn’t answer my letters--and I wrote you a dozen; you wouldn’t see me when I knocked at your door in New York; and Fanny’s efforts to have us visit her at York Harbour failed all summer because you wouldn’t go.” “I was busy, and I didn’t----” “You didn’t want to see me? Is that what you were going to say?” “No; I didn’t mean that--I hope to have time for my friends when I get better established in my work. My opportunity is unusual--everyone is so kind.” “Your genius is remarkable, and everyone has to be kind. But Jean----” “Well, Mr. Craighill.” “It’s getting dark and John is waiting to take us to Rosedale for dinner, so I’m going to say something to you that’s very important to me; please, Jean, won’t you listen?” She rose as though to leave him; but his manner had changed, and she stood still, compelled by the very seriousness with which he spoke.