The postman sent the letter to the Dead Letter Office, marked “Can not be found,” and several bulky ones that followed it shared the same fate, until by autumn they ceased to come, the writer evidently giving up in despair. It could not have been Mae Sweetland, for she knew that her aunt was in Europe, and kept up an animated correspondence with her and Viola, so it was quite a mystery who could have been sending those letters to Mrs. Maxwell. To pretty Mae Sweetland Viola had intrusted the task of seeing now and then after the progress of Rolfe’s portrait; for, as she assured Mae, the artist was very indolent, and would never apply himself to the task unless goaded to it by pertinacious attention. So now and then Mae came up to Washington with her cousins on little pleasure trips, and they always invaded Florian’s studio, sometimes finding him there, but oftener out, for he worked but seldom, since the prize for which he consented to paint the portrait, the hope of Viola’s occasional visits, was denied by her lengthened absence. He had thought she would be coming every week to see how his work progressed, and that they would gradually return to the footing of the dear old days before he had been forced away from his fickle betrothed, leaving her to forget him in the fascinations of an unsuspected rival. Florian thought he would have an easy task ousting Desha from her heart, and that they would mutually forgive each other, and marry happily after all their ups and downs; but things looked different somehow when he learned that she was sailing for Europe for an indefinite stay, and had deputed to that golden-haired fairy, Miss Sweetland, the task of watching the progress of Rolfe’s portrait. Mae was very shy, and she dreaded the visits to the handsome artist, who at first was rather curt and indifferent in his disappointment over Viola, and made careless excuses for not having begun the portrait when Mae made her third call in the month of July. “Too hot to work now. I’ve concluded not to begin till fall,” he said; then started as he saw quick tears sparkle in her lovely blue eyes. “Oh, how grieved Viola will be! The disappointment will quite break her heart!” she cried; and Florian smiled cynically. Mae continued, reproachfully: “You promised it in three months, you know, and now you break your promise so easily. How can you be so cruel?” “How spirited the little thing is!” he thought, looking at her with suddenly aroused interest. “So you think me cruel, Miss Sweetland? Well, I dare say I deserve it! But would you be willing to make a personal sacrifice to induce me to give over my indolence and begin your cousin’s portrait?” “Name it,” she replied, hopefully; and Florian said, in one of his daring moods: