ith Lois, of
course; and "What do you say, Miss Dosia--can't we make it a family
party, and take the children too?" he asked, with eager divination of
what would please this lovely thing.

"Yes, oh, why can't you take _us_?" cried Zaidee, trembling with
delight.

The rain had ceased, but the sunlight had vanished, too; the whole
place was growing dark. There was a sudden silence, in which Dosia's
voice was heard saying:

"I'll get my photograph now, if you want it." She rose and left the
room,--she could not have stayed in it a moment longer,--and Zaidee
ran over to her father, her white frock crumpled and the cheek that
had lain against Dosia rosy warm.

"You had better light the lamp, Justin," said Lois, and then, "Oh,
you're not going?" as Girard stood up.

He turned his bright, gentle regard upon her. "I'm afraid I'll have
to."

"I expected you to stay to tea; I've had a place set for you."

"I'd like to very much--it's kind of you to ask me--but I'm afraid not
to-night. I'll see you to-morrow, Sutton, I suppose. Good evening,
Mrs. Alexander." His hand-touch seemed to give an intimacy to the
words.

"Your stick is out here in the hall somewhere," said Justin,
investigating the corners for it, while Zaidee, who had followed the
two, stood in the doorway.

"I wonder if this little girl will kiss me good-by?" asked Girard
tentatively.

"Will you, Zaidee?" asked her father, in his turn.

For all answer, Zaidee raised her little face trustfully. Girard
dropped on one knee, a very gallant figure of a gentleman, as he put
both arms around the small, light form of the child and held her
tightly to him for one brief instant while his lips pressed that warm
cheek. When he strode lightly away, waving his hand behind him in
farewell, it was with an odd, somber effect of having said good-by to
a great deal.

For the second time that day, it seemed that Zaidee had been the
recipient of an emotion called forth by some one else.

XVII

"Lois?"

"Yes?"

Dosia had come into the nursery, where Lois sat sewing, a canary
overhead swinging with shrill velocity in a stream of sunshine. Her
look gave no invitation to Dosia. She did not want to talk; she was
busy, as ever, with--no matter what she was doing--the self-fulness of
her thoughts, which chained her like a slave. She had been longing to
move into the other house, where, amid new surroundings, she could
escape from the familiar walls and outlook that each