and ward life--
had seen few. Just why it made her feel quiet she could not
have told. Yet the brown eyes went somewhat gravely from
Primrose at her work to the hall where Rollo felt so much at
home--then round the room and towards the window, watching the
rain.

'Won't you give me some work?' she asked suddenly.

'O talk!' said Primrose, looking up. 'Don't work.'

'It takes more than work to stop my mouth,' said Wych Hazel,
'Ah, I can work, though you don't believe it, Miss Rosy; do
please give me that ruffle--or a handkerchief,--don't you want
some marked? I can embroider like any German.'

Primrose doubted her powers of sewing and talking both at
once; but finally supplied her with an immense white cravat to
hem, destined for the comfort of Dr. Maryland's throat; and
working and chatting did go on very steadily for some time
thereafter, both girls being intent on each other at least, if
not on the hemming, till Rollo came back. He interrupted the
course of things.

'Now,' said Rollo, 'I am going to ask you first, Primrose--are
you setting about to make Miss Kennedy as busy as yourself?'

'I wish I could, you know,' said Primrose, half smiling, half
wistfully.

'And I want to know from you, Miss Kennedy, where Mr. Falkirk
is this afternoon?'

'In the depths of a nap, I suppose. Is the rain slackening,
Mr. Rollo?'

'What do you think?'--as with a fresher puff of wind the rush
of the raindrops to the earth seemed to be more hurried and
furious. Wych Hazel listened, but did not speak her thoughts.
Rollo considered her a little, and then drew up the portfolio
stand and began to undo the fastenings of the portfolio.

'Do you like this sort of thing?'

'Very much. O I don't care a great deal about them as
engravings, I suppose; but I like to study the faces and
puzzle over the lives.'

'This collection is nothing remarkable as a collection--but it
may serve your purpose, perhaps.' He set up a large, rather
coarse print of Fortitude, by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The figure
stands erect, armed with a helmet and plume, one hand on her
hip, the other touching just the tip of one finger to a broken
column by her side. At her feet a couchant lion.

'Looking at that, not as an engraving, which wouldn't be
profitable, what do you see?'

'I was trying to think whether she was Mr. Falkirk's ideal,'
said Wych Hazel, after a somewhat prolonged study of the
engraving. 'She is not mine.'

'Why not?'

'Yes, she isn't