rfered with his passion. Mrs. Bowen liked him always, Mr. Bowen
liked him now; nobody had objected, it had not occurred to anybody to
object; money had not been mentioned any more than it would have been in
Arcadia. Strange to say, the good, simple woman, and the good, shrewd
man had both divined Frank's peculiar sensitiveness, and respected it.

There was no period fixed for the engagement, it was indefinite as yet,
and the winter, with all its excitements of South and North, passed by
at length, and the first of April the Bowens moved out to Ridgefield. It
was earlier than usual; but the city was crazed with excitement, and Mr.
Bowen was tried and worn; he wanted quiet. Then I saw a great deal of
Josephine, and in spite of Laura, and her still restless objections to
the child's childish, laughing, inconsequent manner, I grew into liking
her: not that there seemed any great depth to her; she was not specially
intellectual, or witty, or studious, or practical; she did not try to
be anything: perhaps that was her charm to me. I had seen so many women
laboring at themselves to be something, that one who was content to live
without thinking about it was a real phenomenon to me. Nothing bores me
(though I be stoned for the confession, I must make it!) more than a
woman who is bent on improving her mind, or forming her manners, or
moulding her character, or watching her motives, with that deadly-lively
conscientiousness that makes so many good people disagreeable. Why can't
they consider the lilies, which grow by receiving sun and air and dew
from God, and not hopping about over the lots to find the warmest corner
or the wettest hollow, to see how much bigger and brighter they can
grow? It was real rest to me to have this tiny, bright creature come
in to me every day during Frank's office-hours as unintentionally as a
yellow butterfly would come in at the window. Sometimes she strayed to
the kitchen-porch, and, resting her elbows on the window-sill and her
chin on both palms, looked at me with wondering eyes while I made bread
or cake; sometimes she came by the long parlor-window, and sat down on a
_brioche_ at my feet while I sewed, talking in her direct, unconsidered
way, so fresh, and withal so good and pure, I came to thinking the day
very dull that did not bring "Kitten" to see me.

The nineteenth of April, in the evening, my door opened again with an
impetuous bang; but this time it was Frank Addison, his eyes blazing,