, emphasizing the near and dear detail.

"That makes me think," said Miss Euphrasia, suddenly. "Desire," she
went on, without explaining why, "we are going up to Brickfield
Farms next week, Christopher and I. Why shouldn't you go too,--and
bring her home, you know?"

As true as she lived, Miss Euphrasia hadn't a thought--whatever
_you_ may think--of this and that, or anything, when she said it.

Except the simple fact, that it was beautiful October weather, and
that _she_ should like it, and that Sylvie and Desire would get
acquainted.

"It will do you good. You'd better," said Mr. Vireo, kindly.

Christopher Kirkbright said nothing, of course. There was nothing
for him to say. He did not think very much. He only had a passing
feeling that it would be pleasant to see this grave-faced girl
again, and to understand her, perhaps, a little.

CHAPTER XV.

BONNY BOWLS.

The great show house at Pomantic was almost finished. The
architect's and builder's cares were over. There was a stained glass
window to go in upon the high second landing of the splendid carved
oak staircase, through which gold and rose and purple light should
pour down upon the panels of the soft-tinted walls and the rich
inlaying of the floors. There was a little polishing of walnut work
and oiling of dark pine in kitchen and laundry, and the fastening on
of a few silver knobs and faucets here and there, up-stairs,
remaining to be done; then it would be ready for the upholsterer.

Mr. Newrich had builded better than he thought; thanks to the
delicate taste and the genius of his architect, and the careful
skill of his contractor. He was proud of his elegant mansion, and
fancied that it expressed himself, and the glory that his life had
grown to.

Frank Sunderline knew that it expressed _him_-self; for he had put
himself--his hope, his ambition, his sense of right and
fitness--into every stroke and line. Now that it was done, it was
more his than the man's who paid the bills,--"out of his waistcoat
pocket," as he exultingly said to his wife. The designer and the
builder had paid for it out of brain and heart and will, and were
the real men who had got a new creation and possession of their own,
though they should turn their backs upon their finished labor, and
never go within the walls again.

It was a kind of a Sunday feeling with which Frank Sunderline was
glad, though it was the middle of the week. The sense of
accomplishment is the