produces it in her drawing."

"I am sure he is to be congratulated," remarked Mrs. Morrison.

"Unless I am very much mistaken, so is she," her husband added.

Frances was listening with wide-open eyes. "Is Miss Sherwin going to be
married to Mr. Carter?"

"I shouldn't be a bit surprised, Wink, if she were," replied her father,
"but you and I are supposed to know nothing about it."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SECOND.

THE LITTLE GIRL IN THE GOLDEN DOORWAY.

It was evident, Mr. Morrison said, that he and his wife could not get
away too soon to please his aunt, and this was true for two reasons.
Mrs. Richards wished her nephew to meet his old friends under her
roof--there would be less talk; and before their return the six months'
lease on the flat would have expired and they would naturally come to
her for a while at least. She also wanted Frances all to herself. The
great house would be another place with the sound of a child's voice to
charm away its loneliness.

She spent much time and thought in plans for her little niece's
entertainment, which were quite unnecessary, for Frances was as happy
as a lark, and found the hours brimful of amusement. To hear Caroline
tell of her father when he was little Jack; to go shopping or driving
with Aunt Frances; to romp with the fox terrier in the garden which the
crocuses and hyacinths were making beautiful; and then, when the day was
almost over, to rest in the depths of some great chair and look up at
the girl in the golden doorway,--this was unalloyed happiness.

One Friday they drove to the house of the Spectacle Man and carried Emma
away to stay till Monday. How she ever came to let her go Mrs. Bond
couldn't understand; she believed she was bewitched. Emma, however, had
a blissful holiday, and before it was over she found courage to ask
Frances a question.

"Do you like me as much as you used to, Frances?" she said.

"What makes you ask such a funny question? Of course I do."

"I thought maybe you wouldn't care so much now."

"Why not?" insisted Frances, greatly puzzled.

Emma thought of quoting her mother's proverb about birds of a feather,
the application of which she did not exactly understand; but she only
said, "Oh, because you are rich, I suppose."

"But I'm not rich,--any richer than I ever was."

"Your aunt is."

"But why should that make me not like you? I don't like you to think
such a thing about me," and Frances looked aggrieved.

"I didn't reall