se you think you will look like her then," was his retort.

"Now, Maurice, I don't. I know I am not pretty." Katharine's round face
grew suddenly long, and tears filled her blue eyes.

"Don't be a goose, then. I'll tell you what she made me think of, that
statue of Joan of Arc--don't you remember? Where she is listening to the
voices? We saw it at the Academy of Fine Arts."

"Why, Maurice, how funny! She is much prettier than that," said
Katherine.

CHAPTER THIRD.

FRIENDSHIP.

"True it is that we have seen better days."

A rambling, sleepy town was Friendship, with few aspirations beyond the
traditions of its grandfathers and a fine indifference toward modern
improvements.

During the era of monstrous creations in black walnut it had clung to its
old mahogany and rosewood, and chromos had never displaced in its
affections the time-worn colored prints of little Samuel or flower-decked
shepherdesses. In consequence of this conservatism Friendship one day
awoke in the fashion.

There were fine old homes in Friendship which in their soft-toned browns
and grays seemed as much a part of the landscape as the forest trees that
surrounded them and shaded the broad street. Associated with these
mansions were names dignified and substantial, such as Molesworth,
Parton, Gilpin, Whittredge.

In times past the atmosphere of the village had seemed to be pervaded by
something of the spirit of its name, for here life flowed on serenely in
old grooves and its ways were the peaceful ways of friendship. But of late
years, alas! something alien and discordant had crept in.

'"And what is Friendship but a name--'"

quoted the cabinet-maker sadly one morning when after climbing the hill
from the wharf he paused to rest on the low stone wall surrounding the
Gilpin place.

Landing Lane ended at the top of the hill, and here at right angles to it
the Main Street of Friendship might be said to begin, slowly descending to
a level and following the leisurely curves of the old stage road till it
came to a straggling end at the foot of another prominence known as Red
Hill.

In forty years a life takes deep root, and this time had passed since
Morgan, a raw Scotch boy of eighteen, had come to Friendship as assistant
to the village cabinet-maker. A year or two later an illness deprived him
of his hearing, but fortunately not of his skill, and upon the death of
his employer he succeeded to the business, his kindly, simple