“No, Miss Spicer, I will take leave of you now; for this is the last time that you will ever be admitted into a house of which I am mistress.” Miss Spicer turned upon the mat like a little fury. “Well, madam! I suppose it is just possible to live without coming into your house! Heaven knows, it’s been dull enough since that girl cut you out with Ross, the painter! This is the gratitude one gets for paying off your debts. I’m thankful for one thing; though! She’ll marry him, and leave you to break your mean old heart; while Ivon will hate you forever and ever for breaking up his little matrimonial game. Good-by, Mrs. Lambert. If you can stand it, I ought to, having nothing very dreadful to look back upon, and plenty of youth, which you will never have again!” As Miss Spicer was flying down stairs in her hot wrath, Ivon Lambert came into the hall, and stood aside for her to pass. She stopped suddenly, and held out her hand with a hysterical laugh. “There; let’s shake hands, and say good-by. Your lovely mother has just turned me out of doors; but see if I don’t pay her off! If that fellow, Ross, don’t marry your old lady love, and I for one have no idea that he ever thought of it, I’ll marry him myself, and ride over the old woman rough-shod. With his genius and my money we could do it—for people are beginning to talk about her awfully, I can tell you; something about the conservatory, and fainting dead at the artist’s feet. Ellen Post knows all about it. She’s just been sent away, and won’t the story ring. Of course I shan’t help it forward. Oh, no! she hasn’t insulted me!” Before Ivon could even comprehend this rude speech, the young lady had turned the latch and door-knob with a force that tore her gloves, and hurried down the pavement. Ivon, who had intended to visit his mother, went to her room, where he found her pacing up and down the carpet, flushed with suppressed excitement, and with unusual fire in her eyes. “My son!—my dear son! I am glad, very glad that you are here. Something, no matter what, has disturbed me. I have been hard and selfish with you; my own wretchedness has made me cruel.” “Your own wretchedness, mother!” “There, there, Ivon! Do not question me; but generously accept my atonement, without explanation. I have been very, very unhappy of late; but I am not speaking of myself. You are dear to me as any son could have been. When I die, all that I have shall be yours, without restriction. From this day out the world shall know you as my heir. Another thing, once more I say to you, seek out that girl and marry her, if you can. I will accept her with all my heart. Carter has made her his heiress—be it so! I make you my heir. Go, ask her to marry you.” “Mother! Mother! how can I? She has refused me once,” cried the young man.