Viola was the more self-possessed of the two, calm, quiet, and gently deprecating, as she repeated: “Yes, a favor, but first let me present you to my cousin, Miss Sweetland. Dear Mae, this is an old friend of mine, Mr. Gay.” They bowed to each other, and Florian could not help seeing that the young girl was very lovely, even when contrasted with peerless Viola. He hastened to place seats for them, wondering uneasily what Desha would think, but hoping devoutly he would remain hidden behind the curtain. Viola continued, gently and frankly: “If you can forgive my past folly, and be friends again, I wish you to paint a life-size picture for me from a photograph of my dead husband. Will you do it, Florian?” Viola did not mean to wound him, but her words quivered like an arrow in his heart. He started, paled, then exclaimed, almost violently: “How can you ask me? No, I will not do it!” Suddenly she comprehended from his emotion the enormity of her offense, and flushed and faltered: “I am very sorry--and perhaps I ought not to have asked you--but I knew you could do it better than any one else. Forgive me, and--good-bye,” her voice breaking as she moved toward the door. But at that moment Philip Desha came quickly from behind the curtain and placed himself in her way. “I beg your pardon for detaining you--Mrs. Maxwell,” he exclaimed, eagerly. “But--but--since our good friend Florian is so busy, will you let me recommend a very talented artist whom I know quite well?” Viola started, paled, and trembled at the sound of his voice, and her heart smote her with remorse as she gazed into his face and saw what a change had come over it since their parting. With an effort she murmured: “If you will be so kind, I shall indeed be most grateful.” Pretty Mae, looking on at the agitation of all three, wondered to herself at the cause of it all. Florian seized with sudden jealousy of Desha, thought, angrily: “How clever he is, trying to ingratiate himself with her again! I will forestall his plans, no matter what pangs it costs my own heart!” Hurrying forward, he exclaimed, eagerly: “Viola, I was hasty in refusing. Indeed, I should like to oblige you in this matter, if you are not in too great a hurry over it. Could you give me three months?” “Yes; for I am going South in a few days, to be absent several months, so that I should be quite satisfied to have it done by the time of my return,” she cried, sweetly. “Then I will undertake it,” he replied, glad to disappoint Desha’s scheme. Viola took out the fine cabinet photograph of Rolfe Maxwell and handed it to him in silent emotion, while both men gazed with interest at the handsome rival who had seized the prize they had let slip from their grasp. Florian’s heart throbbed with keen jealousy of the dead man, and Desha uttered a cry of recognition and surprise. “What is it?” cried Viola, turning eagerly to him; and he answered: