d not imagine any detail
venturing to go wrong; any food to be underdone or overdone; any servant
to venture to make trouble. The machinery of the household moved on
oiled wheels. A delicate cleanliness, quietness, order, pervaded the
home and all its surroundings.

Mrs. Barry made no comment on her guest's lack of appetite. When they
had finished, she led her out to the porch where their coffee was
served.

"Now, isn't this an improvement on Rockcrest?" she asked as they sat
listening to the sleepy, closing evening songs of the thrushes. "Imagine
trying to drink our coffee on that piazza where we were this afternoon.
There is a more sheltered portion, a part that I have enclosed in glass;
but my son likes the front to be all open to the elements."

"It is very beautiful here," said Geraldine. "It must be hard for you to
tear yourself away even later in the season."

"That is what does it," returned Mrs. Barry, waving her hand toward a
large thermometer affixed to one of the columns. "When you come down
some morning and find the mercury trying to go over the top, you are
ready to flit where there are no great trees to seem to hold in the
air." The speaker paused, regarding the young girl for a moment in
silence. An appreciation of her had been growing ever since they left
Keefeport, and now for the first time she allowed herself a pleasure in
Geraldine's beauty. It was wonderful camouflage if it was nothing more.
"Do you enjoy music, Miss Melody?" she asked suddenly.

The girl gave her a faint smile.

"Foolish question, isn't it?" she added. "I usually play awhile in the
evening." She set down her cup and rose.

Geraldine rose also, looked pleased and eager.

"I'm so glad," she replied. "I have no accomplishments myself."

A vague memory of having heard something about a cruel stepmother
assailed the hostess. She smiled kindly at the girl. "Some people have
gifts instead," she said. "Stay here. I will go in and try to give you
some happy thoughts."

Geraldine sank back in her chair, her eyes fixed on the graceful elms
and the vivid streaks across a sunset sky.

As the strains of Chopin, Schumann, and Brahms came through the open
window it necessitated some, effort not to have too happy thoughts. The
skillful musician modulated from one number to another, and Geraldine,
all ignorant in her art-starved life, of what she was hearing, gave
herself up to the loveliness of sight and sound.

When Mrs. Barry reap