he sale became evident. Circulars containing an inventory of the
things to be disposed of were spread abroad, and it was known that the
proprietor of the new mills, a stranger in Friendship, had been through
the house with the idea of purchasing.

As she unlocked the door of Saint Cecilia's room, Celia could not help
remembering the days when she had looked forward so happily to owning the
spinet, and seeing it stand beneath her great-grandmother's portrait.

From the cushioned window-seat, where there was a glimpse of the river
through the trees, she had loved to survey the calm orderliness of the
little room. At heart something of a Puritan, the straight-backed chairs
and unreposeful sofa, the secretary with its diamond-paned doors and glass
knobs, the quaint old jardinieres brought from China a century ago,
pleased her fancy.

How Genevieve Whittredge had smiled and shrugged her shoulders! In those
days their half antagonistic friendship had not suffered a complete break.
She must have color and warmth and lavishness, and Celia acknowledged her
unerring taste and admired the beauty and richness Genevieve found
necessary to her happiness, even while she returned contentedly to her own
prim little room.

It had been her dreaming place, and when dreams were crowded out by an
exacting present, she had closed the door and turned the key. It was so
much the less to take care of.

"I don't see why Mr. Gilpin couldn't have left you some money," her mother
said, following her. "It would be such a help just now. How are we to keep
Tom at the university another year?"

Mrs. Fair had a way of bringing up problems just when her daughter had
succeeded in putting them aside.

"I think we can manage in some way, mother. Don't worry," she said.

"But some one has to worry."

"Then let me do it," Celia answered, smiling.

Half an hour later she was standing by the spinet, absently touching the
tuneless keys, when a voice from the window startled her. It was Morgan,
who with his elbows on the sill, was looking in.

"Better sell it, Miss Celia."

Sell it! The idea had never occurred to her. "What could I get for it?"
she asked, going to the window.

"Two hundred--maybe more."

Two hundred dollars would be a great help toward Tom's expenses, but to
give up her grandmother's spinet? It took on a new value.

"Let me have it to do over and I guarantee you two hundred dollars," said
Morgan.

"I'll think of it and let you