ention was
attracted by a picture beside the door opening thereto, and with an
exclamation, "Oh, this looks like Gordon! Where did he get it?" she
paused. Roberta glanced that way, but a quite different object in the
inner room had caught her eye, and leaving Rosamond to her wonder over a
rather remarkable resemblance to her own little son in the rarely
exquisite colour-drawing of a child of similar age, she went on, to
stand still in the doorway, surprised out of all restraint as to the use
of her interested eyes.

For this, contrary to all possible expectations, was either the room of
a man of literary tastes, and of one who also preferred simplicity and
utility to display of any sort, or it was an extremely clever imitation
of such a room. And there were certain rather trustworthy evidences of
the former.

The room, although smaller than the outer one, was a place of good size,
with several large windows. Its walls to a height of several feet were
lined with bookshelves filled to overflowing, the whole representing no
less than three or four thousand books; Roberta could hardly guess at
their number. Several comfortable easy-chairs and a massive desk were
almost the only other furnishings, unless one included a few framed
foreign photographs and the two portraits which hung on opposite walls.
These presently called for study.

Rosamond came in and stood beside her sister, regarding the portraits
with curiosity. "The father has a remarkably fine face, hasn't he?" she
observed, turning from one to the other. "Unusually fine; and I think
his son resembles him. But he is more like his mother. Isn't she
beautiful? And he never knew her; she died when he was such a little
fellow. Isn't it touching to see how he has her there above his desk as
if he wanted to know her? How many books! I didn't know he cared for
books, did you? Perhaps they were his father's; though his father was a
business man. Yet I don't know why we never credit business men with any
interest in books. Perhaps they study them more than we imagine; they
must study something. Rob, did you see the picture in the other room
that looks so like Gordon? It seems almost as if it must have been
painted from him."

She flitted back into the outer room. Roberta stood still before the
desk, above which hung the portrait of the lovely young woman who had
been Richard's mother. Younger than Roberta herself she looked; such a
girl to pass away and leave her baby,