here comes Dr. Barnett.
I promised him some more flowers to take to little Katie Gregg. If he is
not in a hurry I shall ask him in; and, Kat, I advise you to put up your
hair. It looks like an Indian's that way."

"Who cares for old Barnett?" said Kat, as Bea flitted out. "My hair
suits myself, and if he don't like it, he can look at Kittie's. Hers is
as proper as ten commandments, with a killing bow fastened right on an
angle with her ear. Now here comes Ralph, and I'm off. Kittie come down
to the pond, and let's take a row."

"I will in a little while," said Kittie, putting her sewing aside; "but
Ralph is going to help me with that example I couldn't get, and I'll do
that first, then I'll be down."

"Well, I'll not look for you," said Kat discontentedly. "After you get
your old example, there'll be something else, and then it'll be time to
get dinner. I just abominate cousins!" and Kat slammed out of one door,
just as Ralph came in at the other.

No one saw Olive again during the day, but just before supper she came
down stairs and asked for mother.

"I don't know," said Kittie, flying about the kitchen with her big apron
on. "She and Bea went down town this afternoon; I don't know whether
they're back or not. If you're going in the sitting-room, tell Ralph to
come; he said he'd beat the eggs, if I'd make a puff-cake."

So Olive went into the sitting-room, and sent Ralph out to the feminine
employment of egg-beating, then she stood by the window and looked
absently out at the shadowy yard. She was going to Virginia; she had
decided on that, though the decision had cost some bitter tears and some
stern reasoning; for her new plans, long held in check, were doubly
precious in the sudden promise of fulfillment, and her whole soul,
starved out on book-keeping and dusty offices, begged for a revel in the
art she loved so well.

"After all," she mused, deciding grimly to look at the best side of
things, "Jean says there is a gallery of grand pictures at Congreve
Hall, and I suppose I can study and make copies of the ones that I like;
and then"--the thought was a little distasteful to her--"I suppose I was
unjust to Mr. Congreve, and ought to make amends if I can. We do owe him
more than any amount of gratitude can ever repay, for all he's done for
Jean, and I suppose I ought to call him Uncle Ridley, and have the dress
made that he sent me; perhaps he'll recognize it;" then she laughed a
little, to think what he wo