time Dolly had
recovered herself a little, and throwing off her apron, she replied,
nervously:

'Not at all--not at all, I supposed you were some peddler or agent when
I sent you to this door. They are the plague of my life, and think I'll
buy everything and give to everything because Arthur did. I am doing my
own work, you see. Come into the parlor;' and she led the way into the
dark drawing-room, and where the chairs and sofas were surrounded in
white linen, looking like so many ghosts in the dim, uncertain light.

But Dolly opened one of the windows, and pushing back the blinds, let in
a flood of sunshine, so strong and bright that she at once closed the
shutters, saying, apologetically, that she did not believe in fading the
carpets, if they were not her own. Then she sat down upon an ottoman and
faced her visitor, who was regarding her with a mixture of amusement and
wonder.

Grace Atherton was an aristocrat to her very finger-tips, and shrank
from contact with anything vulgar and unsightly, and, to her mind, Mrs.
Tracy represented both, and seemed sadly out of place in that handsome
room, with her sleeves rolled up and the berry stains on her hands and
face. Grace knew nothing by actual experience of canning berries, or of
aprons made of sacking, or of bare arms, except it were of an evening
when they showed white and fair against her satin gown, with bands of
gold and precious stones upon them, and she felt that there was an
immeasurable distance between herself and this woman, whom she had come
to see partly on business and partly because she thought she must call
upon her for the sake of Arthur Tracy, the former occupant of the park.

Grace and Arthur had been fast friends, and Brier Hill was almost the
only place where he had visited on anything like terms of intimacy.
Indeed, it was rumored by the busy knowing ones of Shannondale that, had
the pretty widow been six years his junior instead of his senior, she
would have left no art untried to win him. But here the wise ones were
in fault, for though Grace Atherton's heart was not buried in her
husband's grave, and, in fact, had never been her husband's at all, it
was given to one who, though he cared for it once, did not prize it now,
for, with all the intensity of his noble nature, Richard Harrington, of
Collingwood; loved the beautiful girl whom, years ago, he had taken to
his home as his child, and whom, it was said, he was to marry. But if
the belief t