looked not unlike a harp in her hand; her half-bent head and graceful
neck, the flushed face and eyes, the whole picture was like a Titian,
rich in color and life.

And she saw him and looked up smiling.

It was not the smile of happiness. He did not know it because, being
blind, he could not know. It was the happiness of work--achievement.

He came in smiling. "Why are you so much happier than last week?"

"Would you really like to know?" she said, looking him frankly in the
eyes.

He touched her hair playfully. She moved her head and shook it
warningly.

"It is because I am at work and father is trying so hard to reform."

"I thought maybe it was because you had found out how much I love
you."

It was his old, stereotyped, brazen way, but she did not know it and
blushed prettily.

"You are kind, Mr. Travis, but--but that mustn't be thought of.
Please, but I wish you wouldn't talk that way."

"Why, it is true, my queen--of The Gaffs?" he said smiling.

She began to work again.

He came over to her and bent low:

"You know I am to take you Monday night"--

Her hands flew very rapidly--her cheeks mantled into a rich glow. One
of the threads snapped. She stopped, confused.

Travis glanced around. No one was near. He bent and kissed her hair:

"My queen," he whispered, "my beautiful queen."

Then he walked quickly out. He went to his office, but he still saw
the beautiful picture. It thrilled him and then there swept up over
him another picture, and he cried savagely to himself:

"I'll make her sorry. She shall bow to that fine thing yet--my
queen."

Nor would it leave him that day, and into the night he dreamed of
her, and it was the same Titian picture in a background of red
sunset. And her machine was a harp she was playing. He wakened and
smiled:

"Am I falling in love with that girl? That will spoil it all."

He watched her closely the next day, for it puzzled him to know why
she had changed so rapidly in her manner toward him. He had ridden to
Millwood to bring her to the mill, himself; and he had some exquisite
roses for her--clipped in the hot-house by his own hands. It was with
an unmistakable twitch of jealousy that he learned that Clay Westmore
had already come by and gone with her.

"I know what it is now," he said to Jud Carpenter at the mill that
morning; "she is half in love with that slow, studious fellow."

Jud laughed: "Say, excuse me, sah--but hanged if you ain't got all
th