talk, I think. He asks me if I am glad I live at Tracy
Park--if I like the pretty things he buys me, and if I should be as
happy if I were poor--not real poor, you know, but as we were at
Langley before I was born. I went there with him a few weeks ago for
the first time; and oh, my goodness gracious! such a poky little
house, with the stairs going right up in the room, and such a tiny,
stuffy bedroom! I tried to fancy mamma's scent bottles, and brushes,
and combs, and the box for polishing her nails, transported to that
room, and her in there with Rosalie dressing her hair. It made me
laugh till I cried, and I think papa did actually cry, for he sat
down upon the stairs and turned his head away, and when he looked up
his eyes were all wet and red, with such a sorry look in them that I
went straight up and kissed him, and asked him playfully if he was
crying for the old days when he lived in that house and sold codfish
in the store.

'"Yes, Maude," he said. "I believe I'd give the remainder of my life
if I could be put back right here as I was when your uncle Arthur's
letter came and turned my head. Oh, if the years and everything
could be blotted out!"

'What do you suppose he meant? I was frightened, and did not say a
word until he asked me those questions I told you about; did I like
pretty things? did I like to live at Tracy Park, and could I bear to
be poor and live in the Langley house? I just told him, 'No, I
should not like to live in Langley, that I did like living at Tracy
Park, and did like the pretty things which money bought.'

'"Then I ought to be content, if my beautiful Maude is so," he said,
and the tired look on his face lifted a little.

'He calls me beautiful so often. But I don't see it, do you? Of
course you don't. You think me too black, and small, and thin, and
so I am. Harold never told me I was pretty, and--I tell this in
confidence, and you must never breathe it to any one--I have tried
to wring a compliment from him so many times, but it's no use, I
can't do it, he never understands anything, though he does sometimes
say, when he brings me a bright rose: "Wear it, Maude; it will
become your style."

'He never says you are pretty, either, and that is strange, for I
think you have the loveliest and sweetest face I ever saw, except
Gretchen's in