l days,
and if you should have any news for me, keep it until I call again. If
unfavorable it would depress my mother, and therefore I prefer you
should not write, as of course she will open any letters addressed to
me. Please save all the work you can for me, and I will come here as
soon as I get back home."

"Very well. Any message, Patterson?"

"Mr. Endicott said, 'All right; first-rate;' and ordered them shipped."

"Here is your money, Miss Brentano. Better call as early as you can, as
I guess there will be a lot of photographs ready in a few days. Good
afternoon."

"Thank you. Good-bye, sir."

From the handful of small change, she selected some pennies which she
slipped inside of her glove, and dropping the remainder into her
pocket, left the building, and walked on toward Union Square. Absorbed
in grave reflections, and oppressed by some vague foreboding of
impending ill, dim, intangible and unlocalized--she moved slowly along
the crowded sidewalk--unconscious of the curious glances directed
toward her superb form, and stately graceful carriage, which more than
one person turned and looked back to admire, wondering when she had
stepped down from some sacred Panathenaic Frieze.

Near Madison Square, she paused before the window of a florist's, and
raising her veil, gazed longingly at the glowing mass of blossoms,
which Nineteenth Century skill and wealth in defiance of isothermal
lines, and climatic limitations force into perfection, in, and out of
season. The violet eyes and crocus fingers of Spring smiled and
quivered, at sight of the crimson rose heart, and flaming paeony cheeks
of royal Summer; and creamy and purple chrysanthemums that quill their
laces over the russet robes of Autumn, here stared in indignant
amazement, at the premature presumption of snowy regal camellias,
audaciously advancing to crown the icy brows of Winter. All latitudes,
all seasons have become bound vassals to the great God Gold; and his
necromancy furnishes with equal facility the dewy wreaths of orange
flowers that perfume the filmy veils of December brides--and the blue
bells of spicy hyacinths which ring "Rest" over the lily pillows, set
as tribute on the graves of babies, who wilt under August suns.

From early childhood, an ardent love of beauty had characterized this
girl, whose covetous gaze wandered from a gorgeous scarlet and gold
orchid nodding in dreams of its habitat, in some vanilla scented
Brazilian jungle, to a