emed almost like sacrilege to
tread upon it. From the wide, deep windows was a view, such as would
hold the most careless gazer in a moment of ecstasy, and after one quick
cry of artistic appreciation, Olive stood mutely entranced. Looking
down, there were occasional glimpses of the magnificent lawn, with here
and there, a rustic seat, and white statue, thrown in bold relief as
seen through the tossing foliage; and looking out, there showed the road
winding down through the mountains, every now and then disappearing,
until finally lost to view; and farther off, and down in the valley lay
Staunton, the busy, beautiful city, with its church spires rising into
the hazy atmosphere, as though in defiance to the lofty peaks towering
so much higher, and printing themselves against the sky in the far
distance, in jagged, immovable lines, that looked like relentless guards
to something beyond.

"Do you want a maid?" asked Jean, breaking in upon her reverie. "Uncle
Ridley sent to ask you."

"A maid!" exclaimed Olive, feeling blank for a moment. Did she want a
maid? No; of course she didn't. Ernestine would have taken a maid; oh,
yes; and no one would ever thought but what she had had a maid and
untold luxuries all her life. But she--"No, I don't want any maid," she
said, almost sharply; then laughed as Jean looked grieved at the quick
tone. "What would I do with a maid, Jeanie? She would know a great deal
more what to do than I, and that would never do, you know. Besides, I'm
too used to dressing myself. Do all young ladies in Virginia have
maids?"

"All the rich ones, I guess. Miss Franc Murray,--she is going to marry
Cousin Roger, Bettine says; she has one, and scolds her like everything
when her hair isn't just right."

"Why, how do you know?" laughed Olive.

"I've been there lots of times. She comes here for me, and tells Uncle
Ridley she loves me dearly; but Olive--"

"Yes."

"When she comes, she stays just as long as she can; and if Cousin Roger
isn't around, she asks me where he is, and all about him; then I have to
promise never to tell."

"But you are telling me."

"Oh, do you think that counts?" cried Jean in alarm. "She didn't ever
mean you; but then, perhaps, I better not tell any more until I ask
her, for I might break my word."

Olive could not resist kissing the childish, innocent face that looked
more like a little angel's than a child of nearly twelve. Surely, no
matter how Jean was surrounded, she