happiness," Mrs. Whittredge's eyes
went back to the book. Surely happiness had slipped from her grasp,
leaving nothing but regret. It was sad to realize that her children found
all their pleasure apart from her. Somewhere she had failed, but pride
told her it was fate; that sorrow and disappointment were the common lot,
that gratitude was not to be looked for.

After her bitter disappointment in her oldest son she had been the more
determined to have her way with Allan. With what result? The extended
tour abroad, planned with a purpose just as his college course was ended,
had weaned him completely from his home. His interests were elsewhere, and
although as joint executor with her of his father's estate he was often in
Friendship, his visits were usually brief. Between herself and her
daughter there was little sympathy. Genevieve, calm and inflexible, had
early declared her independence. But more than all else put together was
her haunting sorrow for her husband. Words of Dr. Fair, spoken long ago in
cruel bluntness, still rang in her ears: "Madam, you are killing your
husband by your obstinacy." Her mind dwelt with morbid persistency upon
them. Had the reconciliation with her son come too late?

At a time of utter weariness with herself she acceded to Patterson's
proposal to send his daughter to her. Genevieve had expostulated,
insisting she would be impossible, a child with no bringing up. Rosalind
had come, and even Genevieve had to admit, so far as manners and
appearance were concerned, she was not impossible.

In the fair young face, with its serious eyes, in whose glance there was
often a singular radiance, Mrs. Whittredge found something that touched
her heart. Her granddaughter had not the Whittredge beauty, she was
nothing of a Whittredge, and yet--One day she had taken up the miniature
on Rosalind's table, with a glance over her shoulder; and when she put it
down and turned away, it was with the reluctant feeling that perhaps there
had been some excuse for her son when he left father and mother and
kindred and home for this young girl.

CHAPTER EIGHTH.

TO MEET ROSALIND.

"Put you in your best array."

Miss Betty Bishop lived in a small white house with brown trimmings, which
she herself likened to a white cake with chocolate filling. Everything
about it was snug and neat and seemed to the observer a pleasant
expression of that kindly, busy, cheery lady; but Miss Betty was in the
habit of dec