ted a moment, then, with a sudden, impulsive
movement, she turned to him.

"Won't you come up with me, and tell me where to hang it?"

They took the little elevator to the floor above, and Laura led the
artist to the room in question--her "sitting-room," a wide, airy place,
the polished floor covered with deep skins, the walls wainscotted half
way to the ceiling, in dull woods. Shelves of books were everywhere,
together with potted plants and tall brass lamps. A long "Madeira"
chair stood at the window which overlooked the park and lake, and near
to it a great round table of San Domingo mahogany, with tea things and
almost diaphanous china.

"What a beautiful room," murmured Corthell, as she touched the button
in the wall that opened the current, "and how much you have impressed
your individuality upon it. I should have known that you lived here. If
you were thousands of miles away and I had entered here, I should have
known it was yours--and loved it for such."

"Here is the picture," she said, indicating where it hung. "Doesn't it
seem to you that the light is bad?"

But he explained to her that it was not so, and that she had but to
incline the canvas a little more from the wall to get a good effect.

"Of course, of course," she assented, as he held the picture in place.
"Of course. I shall have it hung over again to-morrow."

For some moments they remained standing in the centre of the room,
looking at the picture and talking of it. And then, without remembering
just how it had happened, Laura found herself leaning back in the
Madeira chair, Corthell seated near at hand by the round table.

"I am glad you like my room," she said. "It is here that I spend most
of my time. Often lately I have had my dinner here. Page goes out a
great deal now, and so I am left alone occasionally. Last night I sat
here in the dark for a long time. The house was so still, everybody was
out--even some of the servants. It was so warm, I raised the windows
and I sat here for hours looking out over the lake. I could hear it
lapping and washing against the shore--almost like a sea. And it was so
still, so still; and I was thinking of the time when I was a little
girl back at Barrington, years and years ago, picking whortle-berries
down in the 'water lot,' and how I got lost once in the corn--the
stalks were away above my head--and how happy I was when my father
would take me up on the hay wagon. Ah, I was happy in those days--just
a