s the water best who
has waded through it," and I have lived long and have learned my lesson.
When I knew that I could paint no more real pictures I knew that I must
have dream pictures to hang on the walls of memory. Shall I make you a
little catalogue of them, dear heart--thus:

No. 1.--Your precious mother sewing by the west window in our shadowed
sitting-room, her head haloed by the sunset.

No. 2.--Anne in a blue pinafore, with the wind blowing her hair back on a
gray March morning.

No. 3.--Anne in a white frock amid a blur of candle-light on
Christmas----

Oh, my list would be long! People have said that I have lacked pride
because I have chosen to take my troubles philosophically. There have
been times when my soul has wept. I have cried often on my rainy days.
But--there have always been the sunsets--and after that--the stars.

I fear that I have been but little help to you. But you know my
love--blessed one. And the eagerness with which I await your coming. Ever
your own

UNCLE.

CHAPTER XIV

_In Which There is Much Said of Marriage and of Giving in Marriage._

EVE'S green-eyed cat sat on a chair and watched the flame-colored fishes.
It was her morning amusement. When her mistress came down she would have
her cream and her nap. In the meantime, the flashing, golden things in
the clear water aroused an ancient instinct. She reached out a quick paw
and patted the water, flinging showers of sparkling drops on her sleek
fur.

Aunt Maude, eating waffles and reading her morning paper, approved her.
"I hope you'll catch them," she said, "especially the turtles and the
tadpoles--the idea of having such things where you eat."

The green-eyed cat licked her wet paw, then she jumped down from the
chair and trotted to the door to meet Eve, who picked her up and hugged
her. "Pats," she demanded, "what have you been doing? Your little pads
are wet."

"She's been fishing," said Aunt Maude, "in your aquarium. She has more
sense than I thought."

Eve, pouring cream into a crystal dish, laughed. "Pats is as wise as the
ages--you can see it in her eyes. She doesn't say anything, she just
looks. Women ought to follow her example. It's the mysterious, the
silent, that draws men. Now Polly prattles and prattles, and nobody
listens, and we all get a little tired of her; don't we, Polly?"

She set the cream carefully by the green cushion, and Pats, classically
posed on her haunches, lapped it luxuriously. T