manners with her daughter; she maintained always a
lofty, romantic air. With Berenice it was natural--the expression of a
vain, self-conscious, superior disposition.

"A rather charming garden here," he observed, lifting a curtain and
looking out into a blooming plot.

"Yes, the flowers are nice," commented Berenice.

"Wait; I'll get some for you. It's against the rules, but they can't
do more than send me away, and that's what I want."

"Berenice! Come back here!"

It was Mrs. Carter calling.

The daughter was gone in a fling of graceful lines and flounces. "Now
what do you make of her?" asked Mrs. Carter, turning to her friend.

"Youth, individuality, energy--a hundred things. I see nothing wrong
with her."

"If I could only see to it that she had her opportunities unspoiled."

Already Berenice was returning, a subject for an artist in almost
studied lines. Her arms were full of sweet-peas and roses which she
had ruthlessly gathered.

"You wilful girl!" scolded her mother, indulgently. "I shall have to
go and explain to your superiors. Whatever shall I do with her, Mr.
Cowperwood?"

"Load her with daisy chains and transport her to Cytherea," commented
Cowperwood, who had once visited this romantic isle, and therefore knew
its significance.

Berenice paused. "What a pretty speech that is!" she exclaimed. "I
have a notion to give you a special flower for that. I will, too." She
presented him with a rose.

For a girl who had slipped in shy and still, Cowperwood commented, her
mood had certainly changed. Still, this was the privilege of the born
actress, to change. And as he viewed Berenice Fleming now he felt her
to be such--a born actress, lissome, subtle, wise, indifferent,
superior, taking the world as she found it and expecting it to obey--to
sit up like a pet dog and be told to beg. What a charming character!
What a pity it should not be allowed to bloom undisturbed in its
make-believe garden! What a pity, indeed!

Chapter XLII

F. A. Cowperwood, Guardian

It was some time after this first encounter before Cowperwood saw
Berenice again, and then only for a few days in that region of the
Pocono Mountains where Mrs. Carter had her summer home. It was an
idyllic spot on a mountainside, some three miles from Stroudsburg,
among a peculiar juxtaposition of hills which, from the comfortable
recesses of a front veranda, had the appearance, as Mrs. Carter was
fond of explaining, of e