“Some of your art pupils came to the gate just now, didn't they?” she inquired. “Yes,” the girl answered. “Sally and Mary Hill wanted to know if I'd go sketching with them to the swamp to-morrow afternoon.” “And are you going?” “I told them I'd let them know in the morning.” Dora was at her place at the side of the table, and she felt her mother's despondent gaze turned on her. “You told them you'd let them know! Why, don't you know already? I thought you liked to go out that way. Some of your best studies were made at the swamp.” “I was feeling so badly,” the girl sighed, “that I didn't have the heart to promise. I can never work to any advantage if I am not in the mood for it.” “Oh! _that_ is it!” They both sat down. “You ought to fight against languor at this time of the year. I never let an ache or pain keep me from work. Sometimes merely being busy seems to help one. Your father used to stick at his easel as long as the light would hold out. He used to say the time would come when the whole world would admire your painting, and you really _are_ improving.” Dora sighed, but said nothing. Mrs. Barry passed her a cup of coffee. “Here, drink this down while it is hot,” she advised. “I made it strong. It will do you good.” “Thank you, mother, you are very kind to me.” Dora drank some of the coffee, and daintily munched a piece of buttered toast. In the afternoon light, which fell through a western window, Mrs. Barry saw a deeply troubled look on the wan face--a certain nervous twitching of the tapering fingers. Presently Dora pushed back her chair and rose. “I don't care for anything else,” she said, avoiding her mother's eyes. “But you haven't eaten anything at all,” Mrs. Barry protested, anxiously. “I can't eat--I simply can't,” Dora said, with strange and desperate frankness. “I'm too miserable. Oh, mother, mother, pity me! pity me!” Mrs. Barry sat motionless, her head, with its scant hair, now supported by her two sinewy hands. She saw her daughter turn away, and, with dragging feet, go on to her bedroom. “God, have mercy!” she moaned. “She's as good as admitted it. What else could she have meant? Oh, God, what else--what else? She must know what I am afraid of. Oh, my baby!--my poor, poor baby!” She rose from her untasted meal and followed her child, not noticing, in the gathering dusk, that Mrs. Chumley had entered the outer door, and was treading softly and with bated breath in her wake. She found the girl standing at a window, dumb and pale, looking out into the yard. “You must tell me everything, daughter,” Mrs. Barry said. “I can't sleep to-night unless you do. I am afraid I am going mad. Tell me, tell me!” “Oh, mother, mother, how can I?” “You are ruined!” Mrs. Barry groaned. “Tell me I am right--you are ruined!” With a cry, Dora turned and threw herself on the bed, and with her face hidden in a pillow she burst into dry sobs.