rward on the sofa. "Why, Mother gave it me to give to you
when you should come to-day, Cousin Antony."

In the strain to his patience, Fairfax was sharp. He bit his lip,
snatched up his coat and hat.

"You should have given it me at once." His blue eyes flashed. "You don't
know what you may have done. This may ruin my career! I've missed my
appointment with Cedersholm. It's too late now."

He couldn't trust himself further, and, before Bella could regain
countenance, he was gone.

Cut to the heart with remorse, crimson with astonishment, but more
deeply wounded in her pride, the child sat immovable on the sofa.

"Bella," whispered her little brother, "I don't like Cousin Antony, do
you?"

She looked at her brother, touched by Gardiner's chivalry.

"I fink he's a mean man, Bella."

"He's dreadful," she cried, incensed; "he's just too horrid for
anything. Anyhow, it was me made Cedersholm write that letter for him,
and he didn't _even_ say he was obliged."

She ran to the window to watch Antony go, as he always did, on the other
side of the road, in order that the children might see him. She hoped
for a reconcilement, or a soothing wave of his hand; but Antony did not
pass, the window was icy cold, and she turned, discomfited. At her
foot--for as Antony had snatched up his coat he had wantonly desecrated
a last resting-place--at her foot lay the blackbird. With a murmured
word Bella lifted Jetty in both hands to her cheek, and on the cold
breast and toneless throat the tears fell--Bella's first real tears.

CHAPTER XV

Fairfax went into the studio of the first sculptor in the United States
with set determination to find work. Cedersholm was cool and absorbed,
occupied and preoccupied, overburdened with orders, all of which meant
money and fame, but required time. Fairfax was an hour and a half late,
and, in spite of the refusal of the manservant, came limping in, and
found the master taking a glass of hot milk and a biscuit. Cedersholm
reposed on a divan in the corner of a vast studio giving on a less
magnificent workroom. The studio was in semi-darkness, and a table near
the sofa bore a lamp whose light lit the sculptor's face. To Fairfax,
Cedersholm was a lion and wore a mane. In reality, he was a small,
insignificant man who might have been a banker. The Southerner
introduced himself, and when he was seated by the sculptor's side, began
to expose his projects, to dream aloud. He could have talked f