idering something; at
last he said, rather abruptly:

"Yes, Dr. Luttrell has been telling me what a clever fellow he seems,
and I think I shall get him to do a little job for me.

"That picture I bought at Stangrove's wants touching up; it has been
injured; I knew that when I bought it; but it was so slight that it did
not matter, and I meant to get it put to rights. If I send it over
to-morrow or the next day, do you think Mr. Barton will undertake the
job? it will only take him an hour or two."

"He will gladly do so, I am sure of that. Is it the picture that my
husband admired so much?"

"Yes, the Prodigal Son; I bought it that day I sprained my ankle. Very
well, Mrs. Luttrell, it shall be sent to your house."

CHAPTER XIII.

FRESH COMPLICATIONS.

"It is best to be cautious and avoid extremes."--_Plutarch_.

Greta Williams's pathetic little speech, "Come soon, very soon,
please," rather haunted Olivia, and she very speedily found an excuse
for repeating her visit. This time she was welcomed so warmly, and
Miss Williams seemed so unfeignedly pleased to see her, that she felt
she had done the right thing, and after that she went frequently to
Brunswick Place.

Circumstances certainly favoured the rapid growth of their intimacy.
Greta, who had caught a severe cold, was obliged to remain closely
confined to the house, and Dr. Luttrell, who was sincerely sorry for
the lonely girl, encouraged his wife to go as often as possible.

"She has not a soul belonging to her, at least in England," he said
once, "though she has relations in New Zealand, uncles and aunts and
cousins. There is a colony of Williamses in Christ-church. The worst
of it is people seemed to have left off calling, her father made
himself so disagreeable; it is hard lines for her, poor girl. I
believe Mrs. Tolman looks her up occasionally." Then Olivia, at the
mention of the vicar's wife, made a naughty little face.

"Miss Williams rather dreads her visits," she replied. "She calls her
an east-windy sort of person, and I know what she means. Mrs. Tolman
is an excellent woman, but she rubs one up the wrong way. I always
feel bristly all over after one of her parochial visits, and I know
Aunt Madge feels the same. When the vicar is with her he seems to tone
her down somehow, but the very swing of her gown as she enters the
room, and the way she sits down, as though she were taking possession
of one's chair, irritates my nerves