Dean at once,
and, taking off the upper shawl with a fussy gesture, she settled
herself for a chat.

"Yes, thank heaven, Sy is well. I don't know what would become of us
if she wasn't. It has been a hard and sorrowful year for us with Mr.
Dean's business embarrassments, my feeble health, and May's death.
I don't know that you were aware of our loss, sir;" and unaffected
maternal grief gave sudden dignity to the faded, fretful face of the
speaker.

Paul murmured his regrets, understanding better now the pathetic words
on a certain tear-stained page of the little book still in his pocket.

"Poor dear, she suffered everything, and it came very hard upon Sy,
for the child wasn't happy with any one else, and almost lived in
her arms," continued Mrs. Dean, dropping the second shawl to get her
handkerchief.

"Miss Psyche has not had much time for art-studies this year, I
suppose?" said Paul, hoping to arrest the shower, natural as it was.

"How could she with two invalids, the housekeeping, her father and the
boys to attend to? No, she gave that up last spring, and though it was
a great disappointment to her at the time, she has got over it now, I
hope," added her mother, remembering as she spoke that Psyche even now
went about the house sometimes pale and silent, with a hungry look in
her eyes.

"I am glad to hear it," though a little shadow passed over his face
as Paul spoke, for he was too true an artist to believe that any work
could be as happy as that which he loved and lived for. "I thought
there was much promise in Miss Psyche, and I sincerely believe that
time will prove me a true prophet," he said, with mingled regret and
hope in his voice, as he glanced about the room, which betrayed the
tastes still cherished by the girl.

"I'm afraid ambition isn't good for women; I mean the sort that makes
them known by coming before the public in any way. But Sy deserves
some reward, I'm sure, and I know she'll have it, for a better
daughter never lived."

Here the third shawl was cast off, as if the thought of Psyche, or the
presence of a genial guest had touched Mrs. Dean's chilly nature with
a comfortable warmth.

Further conversation was interrupted by the avalanche of boys which
came tumbling down the front stairs, as Tom, Dick, and Harry shouted
in a sort of chorus,--

"Sy, my balloon has got away; lend us a hand at catching him!"

"Sy, I want a lot of paste made, right off."

"Sy, I've split my jacket do