s agreeable illusion; for of course letters were bound to come, and
she answered them all with cousinly affection, as she would have
answered them in any case. At last one came which roused her from her
indifference, for it had a postscript:--

"By the way, there's a Miss Katherine Haviland living near you, at
12 Devon Street, Pimlico. She's a sort of little half-sister of
mine, so I'd be glad if you'd go and look her up some day and be
kind to her. There's a brother knocking about somewhere, but he
doesn't count, he's only a baby. Ripping sport--shot a moose and two
wapiti this morning."

Audrey read the letter with languid attention. She was not in the least
interested to hear that he had taken up land and put it into the hands
of an agent to farm. She was tired of the long highly-coloured
descriptions of Canadian scenery and the tales of Vincent's adventures,
and she had got into the way of skipping his vain repetitions of all the
absurd things he had said to her on the night of his departure; but the
postscript stirred strange feelings in her breast. His mother was
married a second time, but to Audrey's certain knowledge Vincent had no
little half-sisters; it followed that for some reason he had used a
figure of speech. She was not in the least in love with him, but at the
same time she felt all the dignity of her position as empress of his
heart, and could bear no little half-sisters near the throne. She would
certainly look Miss Haviland up. She would go and be kind to her that
afternoon; and she put on her best clothes for the occasion.

A few minutes' walk brought her to No. 12 Devon Street, one of a row of
gloomy little houses--"full of dreadful city clerks and dressmakers,"
she said to herself in a flight of imagination.

She lifted the knocker gingerly in her white gloved hand, and felt by no
means reassured when she was shown in, and followed the servant up the
narrow staircases to the attics. As she neared the top she heard a voice
above her sounding in passionate remonstrance.

"Three baths in the one blessed dy, a-splashin' and a-sloogin' somethin'
orful--'e didn't ought for to do it, m'm, not if it was ever so!"

Here the voice was cut short by a mingled roar and ripple of laughter,
and Miss Audrey Craven paused before announcing herself. Through the
half-open doorway she saw a girl standing before an easel. She had laid
down her palette and brushes, and with bold sure stroke