She had called it nonsense at the time, but she was beginning to see the truth of it. She was careful that her every word and act should be correct, and she was most decidedly doing as she liked. She made good with Mrs. Wheeler and Maida with no trouble at all; but she felt, vaguely, that Mr. Wheeler didn’t like her. This she set about to remedy. Going to his side, as he chanced to sit for a moment alone, she smiled ingratiatingly and said: “I wonder if you can imagine, sir, what it means to me to see the inside of a house like this?” “Bless my soul, what do you mean?” asked Wheeler, puzzled at the girl’s manner. “It’s like a glimpse of Fairyland,” she went on. “You see, I’m terribly ambitious—oh, fearfully so! And all my ambitions lead to just this sort of a home. Do you suppose I’ll ever achieve it, Mr. Wheeler?” Now the girl had truly wonderful magnetic charm, and even staid old Dan Wheeler was not insensible to the note of longing in her voice, the simple, honest admission of her hopes. “Of course you will, little one,” he returned, kindly. “I’ve heard that whatever one wants, one gets, provided the wish is strong enough.” He spoke directly to her, but his gaze wandered as if his thoughts were far away. “Do you really believe that?” Genevieve’s big blue eyes begged an affirmation. “I didn’t say I believed it—I said I have heard it.” He smiled sadly. “Not quite the same—so far as I’m concerned; but quite as assuring to you. Of course, my belief wouldn’t endorse the possibility.” “It would for me,” declared Genevieve. “I’ve lots of confidence in other people’s opinions——” “Anybody’s?” “Anybody whom I respect and believe in.” “Appleby, for instance?” “Oh, yes, indeed! I’d trust Mr. Appleby’s opinions on any subject. Let’s go over there and tell him so.” Samuel Appleby was sitting at the other end, the north end of the long room. “No,” said Wheeler, “I’m too comfortable here to move—ask him to come here.” Genevieve looked at him a little astonished. It was out of order, she thought, for a host to speak thus. She pressed the point, saying there was a picture at the other end of the room she wished to examine. “Run along, then,” said Wheeler, coolly. “Here, Maida, show Miss Lane that etching and tell her the interesting details about it.” The girls went away, and soon after Keefe drifted round to Wheeler’s side. “You know young Sam Appleby?” he asked, casually. “No,” Wheeler said, shortly but not sharply. “I daresay he’s a most estimable chap.” “He’s all of that. He’s a true chip of the old block. Both good gubernatorial timber, as I’m sure you agree.” “What makes you so sure, Mr. Keefe?” Curt Keefe looked straight at him. “Well,” he laughed, “I’m quite ready to admit that the wish was father to the thought.” “Why do you call that an admission?” “Oh,” Keefe readily returned, “it is usually looked upon as a confession that one has no reason for a thought other than a wish.” “And why is it your wish?”