the room devoted to the users of the musical instruments. In response
came a deep, resonant note from Roberta's 'cello, over which the silent
bow had been for some time suspended. There followed a minor scale,
descending well into the depths and vibrating dismally as it went.
Louis, a mocking light in his eye, strolled down the room to his
sisters.

"That's the way you feel about it, eh?" he queried, regarding Roberta
with brotherly interest. "Consigning the poor, innocent chap to the
bottom of the ladder, when he's doing his best to climb up to the
sunshine of your smile. Have you no respect for the opinion of your
betters?"

"Get out your fiddle and play the Grieg _Danse Caprice_, with us," was
her reply, and Louis obeyed, though not without a word or two more in
her ear which made her lift her bow threateningly. Presently the trio
were off, playing with a spirit and dash which drew all ears, and at the
close of the _Danse_ hearty applause called for more. After this
diversion, naturally enough, new subjects came up for discussion.

Returning to the living-room in search of a dropped letter, after the
family had dispersed for the night, Roberta found her mother lingering
there alone. She had drawn a low chair close to the fire, and, having
extinguished all other lights, was sitting quietly looking into the
still glowing embers. Roberta, forgetting her quest, came close, and
flinging a cushion at her mother's knee dropped down there. This was a
frequent happening, and the most intimate hours the two spent together
were after this fashion.

There was no speech for a little, though Mrs. Gray's hand wandered
caressingly about her daughter's neck in a way Roberta dearly loved,
drawing the loosened dark locks away from the small ears, or twisting a
curly strand about her fingers. Suddenly the girl burst out:

"Mother, what are you to do when you find all your theories upset?"

"_All_ upset?" repeated Mrs. Gray, in her rich and quiet voice. "That
would be a calamity indeed. Surely there must be one or two of yours
remaining stable?"

"It seems not, just now. One disproved overturns another. They all hinge
on one another--at least mine do."

"Perhaps not as closely as you think. What is it, dear? Can you tell me
anything about it?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Oh, it's nothing very real, I suppose--just a
sort of vague discomfort at feeling that certain ideals I thought were
as fixed as the stars in the heavens seem t