is merry men to find
comfort in, for Jasper Lamotte has chosen to let it remain _en
naturale_, since it first came into his possession.

To reach Mapleton from Wardour Place one must drive directly to the
center of W----, turn eastward, then cross a handsome new iron bridge,
and go southward a short distance, coming finally to the broad curve
which sweeps up to the mansion, and away from the river, along which the
road winds.

In the old days, when Sybil Lamotte and Constance Wardour found
excellent reasons for meeting and chatting together, at least once in
every twenty-four hours, this fair river was a source of alternate
pleasure and annoyance to them. Of pleasure, when the days were fair,
and Sybil and Frank could pull their boat up stream, and land at the
grassy slope in the rear of Wardour Place, where, often, they found
Constance and a gay party awaiting them. Or, when Constance could drift
down stream with scarcely the stroke of an oar necessary, until she came
opposite "the hill," as Mapleton was often called. Of annoyance, when
winds blew cold and rough, and the waters of the river turned black and
angry, and surged high between its banks. Then the two young ladies
voted the iron bridge "the coldest place possible," and wished that no
dark, wintry river flowed between them.

The river is very calm to-day, however; it is flowing gently, murmuring
softly, and gleaming silver and blue, beneath a soft September sun. Away
down, where the factories stand, and the great wheels turn, it loses its
blue and silver, flowing under that ever moving, never lifting curtain
of smoke, that darkens and dims the skies themselves, and gives to the
sun's face the look of a disreputable celestial tramp.

It's always gray, "down at the factories," and why not? What need have
the toilers there for sunlight? They have work and sleep.

There is nothing gray or dreary about Mapleton, as we enter there and
survey the inmates who, just now, are loitering about the lunch table.
Nothing gray, if we except a few silver threads in the hair of Mrs.
Lamotte; nothing dreary, unless it may be a look which, now and then,
and only for an instant, creeps into the eyes of Mrs. John Burrill.

They sit about the lunch table,--all but Sybil. She has arisen, and
reseated herself in a great easy chair, which seems to swallow up her
slight form, and renders her quite invisible to all at the table, save
Evan, who, from time to time, glances furtively