father! This charming gentleman! It gave her a new sense of values. Relatives had hitherto meant to her Aunt Olivia and Aunt Catherine. There was a photograph of her mother's father, the country doctor, a substantial old codger, but nothing like this, dashing, gay, distinguished.
When Meriweather left her presently, she looked around the room. The library was high-ceiled, hung with faded yellow brocade. The walls were lined with mahogany bookcases, and there was a drop-leaf table with a bronze lamp. Bronze book-ends held together a varied assortment of new books. The fireplace in which great logs glowed was set massively in Italian marble—and above it was the dashing portrait.
Altogether it was a satisfying room for one who loved beauty. Hildegarde wondered how her mother could have left it. "I would have forgiven anything rather than go back to the farm."
When Sampson came in with the tray, he drew a small, low table to where Hildegarde sat by the fire. He had a fine, bronze face which seemed to match the room. He served her deftly and left her to eat alone. There were thin, delicious sandwiches and delicate sugar cakes; the tea was in a slender, silver pot. Hildegarde, as she ate, contrasted the food and service with that she had known at home. Again she wondered at her mother's strength.
It seemed a long time before a step in the hall set her heart to beating wildly. She had rehearsed a thousand things to say to her father, but not one of them seemed now appropriate. Amid all this elegance she felt an upstart. Why had she thought that she might
