ent on, slowly, "the Williamses were
old neighbours of ours. And Greta and my Olive were dear friends, but
they left the neighbourhood long before we did. I never liked Mr.
Williams; he had a knack of quarrelling with all his friends, and we
soon came to loggerheads. He made himself obnoxious in many ways, and
I declared I would never enter his house again. I am sorry to hear we
are such close neighbours."

"What a pity!" observed Olivia, regretfully. "And poor Miss Williams
is so nice."

"Oh, I have no fault to find with her," he returned, in a softer voice.
"She was a good creature, and my Olive was very fond of her. At one
time she was always in our house, and she and Alwyn--let me see, what
was I saying?" interrupting himself with a frown of vexation. "No,
there is no harm in the girl, and I shall always wish her well, for my
little Olive's sake. But it would be painful for us both to meet." He
stopped, sighed heavily, and then, shading his eyes, sat for some
minutes without speaking.

Olivia rose at last. Her visit had not been a pleasant one; the
subjects of conversation had been unlucky. She was vexed with herself,
and yet it was no fault of hers. For once Mr. Gaythorne did not try to
detain her, but there was no want of cordiality in his manner as he bid
her good-bye.

"I shall see you to-morrow," he said; "you had better come early, as
the afternoons are so short," but before she had closed the door he
seemed again lost in thought.

That evening Robert Barton was in high spirits, and talked in a most
sanguine manner of his future. He would set about a picture for the
Royal Academy at once. He had his subject ready. A group in the
casual ward that had greatly impressed him. He had sketched it roughly
with an old, battered lead-pencil he had picked up. He discussed it
with animation all tea-time.

"It is just the sort of thing to take the fancy of the public," he
said. "I shall take pains with it and work it up, patches and all. It
will be sure to sell." And Marcus applauded this resolution.

During the rest of the evening Robert Barton was excellent company. He
told stories--pathetic stories and comical ones, until Olivia put down
her work to listen. And Marcus's laugh had more than once brought
Martha out of the kitchen.

But towards the end of the evening, when Olivia brought him a cup of
hot cocoa, his gaiety suddenly vanished, and he looked at her a little
sadly.

"To-morro