ce in her father's coat-sleeve.

"Cecil's kisses do not seem to be very plentiful," he remarks. "But how
quaint and pretty you are up here!"

The sleeping chamber is done up in white, gold, and blue, and in very
tolerable order. This middle room is characteristic. The floor is of
hard wood and oiled, and rugs of every description are scattered about.
Easels with and without pictures, studies, paintings in oil and
water-colors, bric-a-brac of every shape and kind, from pretty to ugly,
a cabinet, some book-shelves, a wide, tempting lounge in faded raw
silk, with immense, loose cushions, two tables full of litter, and
several lounging chairs. Evidently Marcia is not of the severe order.

The third room really beggars description. An easel stands before the
window, with a pretentious canvas on which a winding river has made its
appearance, but the dry land has not yet emerged from chaos.

"You paint"--he begins, when she interrupts,--

"And now that you have come, Floyd, you can give me some advice. I
was such a young idiot when I ran over Europe, but you have done it
leisurely. Did you devote much time to French art? I can't decide which
to make a specialty. The French are certainly better teachers, but why,
then, do so many go to Rome? It is my dream." And she clasps her hands
in a melodramatic manner.

"What have you been doing?" he asks, as she pauses for breath.

"I took up those things first," nodding to some flower pieces. "But
every school-girl paints them."

"These are exceedingly well done," he says, examining them closely.

"There is nothing distinctive about them. Who remembers a rose or a
bunch of field flowers? Half a dozen women have honorable mention and
one cannot be told from the other. But a landscape or a story or a
striking portrait,--you really must let me try Cecil," glancing at her
with rapture. "Oh, there is an article here in the _Art Journal_ on
which you must give me an opinion." And flying up, she begins a
confusing search. "It is so good to find a kindred soul----"

A light tap at the door breaks up the call. It is Jane, who with a true
English courtesy says,--

"If you please, Mr. Grandon, Miss Laura sent me to say that Mr. Delancy
has come."

Floyd has been so amused with Marcia that he goes rather reluctantly,
and finds his sister's betrothed in the drawing-room, quite at home
with Madame Lepelletier, though possibly a little dazzled. Arthur
Delancy is a blond young man of five