and these, in the light of one dip, shone fitfully with
a frosty lustre. On the round table in the middle were volumes of "The
Mothers of England," "The Grandmothers of the Bible," Blair "On the
Grave," and "The Epic of Hades," the latter copiously and appropriately
illustrated. In addition to these cheerful volumes there were large
tomes of lake and river scenery, with gilt edges and faded magenta
bindings, shrouded from the garish light of day in drab paper covers.

The walls, of a very faint lilac tint, were hung with prize sketches, in
water colors or in pencil, by young ladies who had left. In the former
works of art, distant nature was represented as, on the whole, of a
mauve hue, while the foreground was mainly composed of burnt-umber
rocks, touched up with orange. The shadows in the pencil drawings had an
agreeably brilliant polish, like that which, when conferred on fenders
by Somebody's Patent Dome-Blacklead, "increases the attractions of
the fireside," according to the advertisements. Maitland knew all the
blacklead caves, broad-hatted brigands, and pea-green trees. They were
old acquaintances, and as he fidgeted about the room he became very
impatient.

At last the door opened, and Miss Marlett appeared, rustling in silks,
very stiff, and with an air of extreme astonishment.

"Mr. Maitland?" she said, in an interrogative tone.

"Didn't you expect me? Didn't you get my telegram?" asked Maitland.

It occurred to him that the storm might have injured the wires, that
his message might never have arrived, and that he might be obliged to
explain everything, and break his bad news in person.

"Yes, certainly. I got _both_ your telegrams. But why have you come
here?"

"Why, to see Margaret Shields, of course, and consult you about her. But
what do you mean by _both_ my telegrams?"

Miss Marlett turned very pale, and sat down with unexpected suddenness.

"Oh, what will become of the poor girl?" she cried, "and what will
become of _me_? It will get talked about. The parents will hear of it,
and I am ruined."

The unfortunate lady passed her handkerchief over her eyes, to the
extreme discomfiture of Maitland. He could not bear to see a woman cry;
and that Miss Marlett should cry--Miss Marlett, the least melting, as he
had fancied, of her sex--was a circumstance which entirely puzzled and
greatly disconcerted him.

He remained silent, looking at a flower in the pattern of the carpet,
for at least a minute.