that you have come! We have a whole, long,
quiet day!" Her tones were calm and slow, full of the summer peace and
warmth. He felt straightway content with himself. "Come," she
continued, smiling. "I will make you a cool drink. Mamma has gone to
town and Ruby is off somewhere in the pony cart." When she had left
him on the veranda he laughed at his prudish fancies that had pestered
him a fortnight ago. This June morning she had exactly the necessary
amount of animation and health. All was well with her, and at peace.

They had much gentle desultory conversation. She took him about the
place, showed him the old orchard where her great-grandmother's pupils
had played--one end was now made into a tennis-court, and the stable
with its traces of the old barn where the Rev. Roper Ellwell had kept
his horse and cow. Then there were little pigs and chickens, the
various gardens that were all dear to her, where she patted and
caressed the plants as if they had been alive. She took him to her own
den, a little room where the grandfatherly sermons had once been
written, and where hung a copy of that oil portrait which Thornton had
seen in the Camberton Hall.

"Am I not like him?" she asked suddenly, placing herself in the same
light as the portrait.

"Yes," Thornton answered, "with a difference."

"What is it?" she pressed him anxiously.

"I don't know, the something that has come in with the three
generations," he answered, slowly.

"Tell me honestly," she persisted, with all the egotism of youth
aroused over a personal verdict.

"Shall I?" he said, seriously. She grew grave, but nodded. Thornton
watched the color leave and a trace of helplessness cross her face.

"The old fellow," he kept looking from the portrait to the woman
before him, "in spite of his stiff board costume and the manner he's
painted in, was a great lump of fire. It burned hard in him, burned
away flesh and common passions; he must have been a restless, fervent
man. You are calmer," he ended, stupidly.

"Yes, you mean that his fire has burnt out; that I am weak as water,
when he was strong."

"No, not that, exactly," Thornton protested.

"Yes, you did," she reiterated, sadly. "And it is so, too. I am
generally so tired. There are only hours like these, when something
flows in and I forget things and am happy. But it fades away, it fades
away."

They stood silent before the portrait. Suddenly she remembered
herself.

"Luncheon must be ready."