t irregular intervals,
the windows and angles and the curious pointed roof, stamp it as
something different from the Swiss villas and cottage _ornees_ at its
feet.

Not very near, though; there is a spacious lawn and a wide drive, a
grove of trees that can shut out intrusive neighbors to the south, as
well as another dense thicket northward. There is the road at a
distance on one side, and the broad, beautiful river on the other. Down
below, a mile, perhaps, a rocky point juts out into the river, up above
another, so this forms a kind of indentation, an exclusive sort of bay
for the dwellers therein, and the whole rather aristocratic settlement
is put down on the railway map as Grandon Park.

But it is at the stone house on its very brow where the master, Floyd
Grandon, is expected home to-day after years of wandering and many
changes. In the library his mother and sisters are gathered. It is a
favorite place with Gertrude, who spends her days on the sofa reading.
Marcia much affects her own "study," up under the eaves, but to-day she
is clothed and in her right mind, free from dabs of paint or fingers
grimed with charcoal and crayons. Laura is always Laura, a stylish
young girl, busy with the strip of an extremely elegant carriage robe,
and Mrs. Grandon, a handsome woman past fifty, has a bit of embroidery
in her hands. She seems never exactly idle, but now she holds her work
and listens, then drops into musing.

"I wonder what _can_ be the matter?" she exclaims presently. "It is
full half an hour behind time," looking at her watch.

"Are you in a hurry?" asks a languid voice from the luxurious Turkish
lounge.

"Gertrude! How heartless you are! When we have not seen Floyd for seven
years!" in a tone of reproach.

"If he were only coming alone----"

"And if we _did_ know whether he is married or not!"

This young, impatient voice is Laura's. Not that it will make any great
difference to her.

"We cannot dispossess Floyd," says Marcia, in a queer, caustic tone.
"And a new mistress----"

Marcia has a great gift for making people uncomfortable.

"You seem so certain that he has married her," the mother comments in a
kind of incredulous impatience.

"Well, he was in love with her before. And now their travelling
together, his bringing her here, look wonderfully like it."

"Well, what then? She is rich, handsome, an elegant society woman, and
just your age, Gertrude."

That rather stings the pale, listless