rcia and Eugene would not tease her
so continually, and laugh at the quick and sometimes insolent retorts!

"Where is Violet?" inquires Gertrude.

"She is at the cottage. She has met with an accident," he replies,
gravely.

"Oh!" Gertrude is really alarmed. The rest are curious, indifferent.
"What is it, what has happened?"

"She slipped and fell down-stairs, and has sprained her ankle; beside
the shock, we trust there are no more serious hurts."

"Those poky little stairs!" says Marcia. "I wonder some one's neck has
not been broken before this. Why do you not tear them out, Floyd, and
have the place altered. It has some extremely picturesque points and
would make over beautifully."

"It wouldn't be worth the expense," says Eugene, decisively, "on that
bit of cross road with no real street anywhere. I wonder at St. Vincent
putting money in such a cubby as that."

"The situation is exquisite," declares Marcia. "It seems to just hang
on the side of the cliff, and the terraced lawn and gardens would look
lovely in a sketch; on an autumn day it would be at its best, with the
trees in flaming gold and scarlet, and the intense green of the pines.
I really must undertake it before it is too late. Or as 'Desolation' in
midwinter it would be wonderfully effective."

"The most effective, I think."

Eugene is angry with Floyd for being the real master of the situation
and not allowing him to draw on the firm name for debts. He takes a
special delight in showing ill-temper to the elder.

"I am so glad," says Gertrude to Floyd, as soon as there is sufficient
lull to be heard. "Broken limbs are sometimes extremely troublesome.
But she will not be able to walk for some weeks if it is bad."

"It was dreadfully swollen by the time Dr. Hendricks came. I am very
thankful it was no worse, though that will be bad enough just when I
wanted her well," he says, with an energetic ring to his voice that
causes his mother to glance up.

"It is extremely unfortunate," she comments, with sympathy plainly
ironical. "What had we better do? Our dinner invitations are out."

"Everything will go on just the same," he answers, briefly, but he is
sick at heart. His life seems sacrificed to petty dissensions and the
selfish aims of others. The great, beautiful house is his, but he has
no home. The wife that should be a joy and pleasure is turned by them
into a thorn to prick him here and there. Even his little child--

"Jane, what was the