Maud and her two cousins were having a halcyon time under Tor’s quiet generalship, which always carried the day. Whatever plan he proposed, he invariably contrived to bring to pass, and he seemed bent on giving pleasure to everyone about him. A wonderful box had arrived from London the previous evening, which contained all manner of articles and fabrics most delightful to the female mind; and although Maud had received the lion’s share, Matilda and Bertha were so generously remembered that there was no room for jealousy in their minds. In fact, just at present, they were more inclined to be jealous of one another, and to make much of Maud. Phil’s affection for his sister was evident, and policy certainly urged them both to make a friend of her. Maud, however, was unconscious of any of the schemes and plots fermenting round her. She was so happy in her brother’s return that all other feelings sank into insignificance. Even the talk she had had with Lewis a few days ago, had not made the impression upon her that it would have done some time since, and she had put the subject on one side for the moment as a matter of minor importance. ‘Phil,’ she said one evening, as they strolled about the garden in the softened light, ‘I really think I must take you to see Mr. Meredith to-night. I promised I would soon, and you have been here four whole days. Let us go now.’ ‘Is it not rather late to pay a call?’ ‘Oh, times and seasons are all the same to him, poor man! He is blind, you know.’ ‘Yes, I remember he was mentioned more than once in that last batch of letters I had. But I don’t think you ever named him before in your letters, Maud, and I have not an idea who he is.’ ‘He is a sculptor—at least he was before he went blind; and he was a great friend of papa’s once. He has lived a good deal abroad, and only came here when he lost his sight. He has been here about four years now, I think; but it is only lately that I have got to know them well. He is a widower, and has one daughter, who is a great friend of mine. She is twenty-five, and her name is Roma; she is so beautiful, and she is a sculptor too, and _so_ clever. She and her father are wrapped up in one another. Roma has never been quite the same, they say, since he lost his sight. It is a dreadful grief to her, I know.’ ‘How did he lose it?’ asked Tor. They were walking along a smooth green lane now, which was a short cut to a picturesque house, nestling in a wooded hollow, which Maud pointed out as the home of the blind man and his daughter. ‘I do not know—I think no one knows but Roma and he. They never speak of it to anyone. It happened when they were in Italy—before he came to England to live. I think she feels it almost more than he does; and since then they have quite settled down, and she has been working with her whole soul to complete the works he began, and to earn fame for his sake. She is so clever and so beautiful, Phil, I am sure you will admire her.’