Mary Kingman led the way into the house. As she had remarked, it certainly was not a palace. It was a very old house, but it would have been a very good one, if it had been kept in repair. The party were ushered into a large, square room, which in spite of the general dilapidation of the building, was a comfortable apartment. The floor was covered with a cheap carpet, and the furniture looked as though it had been redeemed by patient care and labor from the wrecks of better times, though here and there it was pieced out by sundry inexpensive articles rendered necessary by the progress of the age. Whatever the house, and whatever the other occupants thereof, Mary Kingman was a lady. She moved with ease and grace, she spoke with fluency, and her manners would have adorned a Fifth Avenue palace. It was evident that she had risen above her social sphere. She was plainly dressed, yet there was that in her personal appearance which indicated a fine taste. It was necessary that Mr. Buckstone should be introduced to the kitchen, where the great wood fire, employed in getting dinner, would extract the remaining moisture from his garments. An odor of fried fish pervaded the house, which the artist declared was exceedingly grateful; indeed, his prejudices, if he had any, against the humble abode and its humble surroundings, seemed to be completely merged in his admiration of Mary. If he was a stylish gentleman, as he doubtless claimed to be, he was remarkably condescending; for he made himself quite at home, and did not seem to notice the disagreeable things which could not be concealed from the eye and the nostrils of the denizen of the city. Mary introduced him to her mother, a plain, good-natured woman, without any pretensions to polish. She was frying the fish over a wood fire in a great, old-fashioned fireplace. She gave the artist a homely but hearty welcome, placed him before the fire, and heaped on the wood till the fire blazed up like a volcano, and the fish in the pan exhibited a tendency to leap out of the hot fat in which it was immersed. “Where is father?” asked Mary, in a low tone. “He hain’t come home yit,” replied Mrs. Kingman, in the same low tone. “Are you go’n’ to have all these folks to dinner? cause, if you be, I must fry some more fish. I hain’t got nigh on to enough.” “I don’t know; I will see.” “I shall evaporate very soon at this rate,” said Mr. Buckstone, who was turning himself round before the fire like a piece of meat on the spit. “I hope you are more comfortable, sir,” replied Mary. “Will you excuse me for a few moments?” “Certainly,” answered the artist, though he would have preferred not to do so, for he realized that the gentlemen in the “best parlor” were to have the benefit of her society during those few moments.