"Of course," protested Palmerston, with artificial warmth; "and, really, I think the place for the work is well selected. I am not much of an engineer, but I went up the other day and looked about, and there are certainly indications of water. I"--he stopped suddenly, aware of his mistake. The girl had not noticed it. "I wish I could make people over," she said, curling her fingers about her thumb, and striking the arm of her chair with the soft side of the resultant fist, after the manner of women. Her companion laughed. "Not every person, I hope; not this one, at least." He drew the photograph from his breast pocket and held it toward her. She took it from him, and looked at it absently an instant. "What a pretty girl!" she said, handing it back to him. "Your sister?" The young man flushed. "No; my fiancée." She held out her hand and took the card again, looking at it with fresh eyes. "A _very_ pretty girl," she said. "What is her name?" "Elizabeth Arnold." "Where does she live?" Palmerston mentioned a village in Michigan. His companion gave another glance at the picture, and laid it upon the arm of the chair. The young man rescued it from her indifference with a little irritable jerk. She was gazing unconsciously toward the horizon. "Don't you intend to congratulate me?" he inquired with a nettled laugh. She turned quickly, flushing to her forehead. "Pardon me. I said she was very pretty--I thought young men found that quite sufficient. I have never heard them talk much of girls in any other way. But perhaps I should have told you: I care very little about photographs, especially of women. They never look like them. They always make me think of paper dolls." She halted between her sentences with an ungirlish embarrassment which Palmerston was beginning to find dangerously attractive. "But the women themselves--you find them interesting?" "Oh, yes; some of them. Mrs. Dysart, for instance. As soon as she learned I had no mother, she invited me to a mothers' meeting. I thought that very interesting." "Very sensible, too. They are mostly childless mothers, and a sprinkling of motherless children will add zest to the assemblage." They both laughed, and the young man's laugh ended in a cough. The girl glanced uneasily toward the bank of fog that was sweeping across the valley. "Mr. Palmerston," she said, "the fog is driving in very fast, and it is growing quite damp and chilly. I think you ought to go home. Wait a minute," she added, hurrying into the tent and returning with a soft gray shawl. "I am afraid you will be cold; let me put this about your shoulders." She threw it around him and pinned it under his chin, standing in front of him with her forehead on a level with his lips. "Now hurry!"