buting lay blessings to a kneeling multitude.

These three persons stood together on the hearth-rug, their eyes fixed
on an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knot of
purple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska
usually sat.

"What they must have cost at this season--though of course it's the
sentiment one cares about!" the lady was saying in a sighing staccato
as Archer came in.

The three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady,
advancing, held out her hand.

"Dear Mr. Archer--almost my cousin Newland!" she said. "I am the
Marchioness Manson."

Archer bowed, and she continued: "My Ellen has taken me in for a few
days. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter with
Spanish friends--such delightful distinguished people: the highest
nobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I was
called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't know
Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?"

Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the Marchioness continued:
"Ah, New York--New York--how little the life of the spirit has reached
it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett."

"Oh, yes--I reached him some time ago; but not by that route," Winsett
said with his dry smile.

The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly. "How do you know, Mr.
Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."

"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur.

"But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful
little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects
you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these
marvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears."

Winsett remained on his feet. "I'm afraid I must be off. Please tell
Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our
street. This house has been an oasis."

"Ah, but she won't abandon YOU. Poetry and art are the breath of life
to her. It IS poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?"

"Well, no; but I sometimes read it," said Winsett, including the group
in a general nod and slipping out of the room.

"A caustic spirit--un peu sauvage. But so witty; Dr. Carver, you DO
think him witty?"

"I never think of wit," said Dr. Carver severely.

"Ah--ah--you never think of wit! How merciless he is to us weak
mortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit; and