e brooded over her lot in
a haughty, bitter spirit. She uttered no complaint,--she was far too
proud for that,--but she took no interest in any thing. Like a
melancholy ghost she wandered up and down, or sat by the window for
hours in a listless attitude. There were moments when she wished herself
Lady Frodsham, times when the change and bustle of such a life as that
of Mr. Barringer would have been heaven itself.

Fred could never persuade her to go anywhere. She took no walks, except
to pace up and down the garden path when the quiet of the house drove
her well-nigh crazy. Once in a great while she opened the piano, and
played as if a demon had taken possession of her soul and her fingers.

Fred breakfasted early and alone. After a while he fell into the habit
of taking his lunch in his office, and coming home to a late dinner.
Martha was certainly the perfection of maids. The housekeeping went on
with the regularity of clockwork: there were no complaints even. Fred
used to sit in his mother's room until her bedtime, when he would go
down to the library, and work for an hour or two.

The utter dearth of interest would have been terrible to him but for his
business. At first he preserved a wide and punctilious distance between
himself and Mr. Garafield. He was the employer, to be sure; but then
Fred Lawrence had a dignity of his own to maintain. One day, however,
the dignity suffered a collapse. Mr. Garafield brought in some new
designs, and they lapsed into an exceedingly entertaining art
discussion. The employer had excellent taste, trained and shaped by
practical experience: Fred possessed the wider mental reach and
exquisite perception of harmony and color, the sentiment of genius.

"Why do you not take up the idea, Mr. Lawrence?" asked his employer.
"House finishing and furnishing is fast coming to be a fine art. An
intelligent, harmonious beauty is demanded. We are leaving behind the
complacency of mere money in our adornments, and asking for something
that evinces thought and refinement. I am sure you could succeed if you
once set about the work."

The compliment touched Fred profoundly, roused him to a new venture. He
practised his almost lost art of designing to some purpose: he wrote two
or three art essays that happened to find much more favor than his
abstruse philosophies. After all, he was young, and the whole world lay
before him. Surely he could carve out some kind of fortune. The light of
earnest