watching the blue water splash lazily against the grey stones. The white
sails of the lake craft in the offing glistened in the sunshine, and the
smoke from the steamers settled along the horizon in long black streaks,
while the passing of an occasional vehicle along the driveway produced a
little cloud of dust, which for a moment obscured the view, and then was
carried away by the summer breeze and scattered along the roadway. The
atmosphere had the hazy hue peculiar to one of those first warm days of
early summer, when the air seems charged with lassitude, and one is
overpowered with a depressing sense of _ennui_, which precludes the
possibility of any sort of action.

Marion Sanderson and Florence Moreland were there in the library, trying
to keep cool and talking over the events of the past six months. Marion
was stretched on a lounge with an Eau-de-Cologne bandage bound about her
forehead to relieve the _migraine_ from which she was suffering, and
Florence sat beside her, plying a palm-leaf fan and trying to amuse her
friend by accounts of the small doings of her life in New Hampshire.

"So you think I must have had a stupid winter," said Florence, in answer
to Marion's last remark.

"I am sure of it. You had much better have remained here with me."

"You are very inconsistent," laughed Florence. "Last minute you said
Chicago was the dullest place you knew anything about."

"I meant dull in comparison with London or New York. It is certainly
better than a place where life is made up of prayer meetings and snow
banks."

"I am glad you are beginning to appreciate the advantages of your home,"
said Florence.

"Don't chaff me, Florence. I can't bear it. I am too nervous. I wish you
had this headache for five minutes and perhaps you would feel sorrier
for me."

"Why, my dear, I do feel sorry for you; isn't there anything I can do?"

"No; Dr. Maccanfrae is coming this morning and I suppose he will give me
a lot of stuff, but it won't do me any good. I have taken every known
medicine this winter, and I have had this headache every day for months.
I can't eat anything. I can't sleep, and I am tired and bored all the
time. The Doctor calls it neurasthenia, but I don't know what good it
does to put such a big name to it, when he can't do me any good."

"There must be something that will help you," said Florence.

"Of course there is. If I could go somewhere else to live I know I
should feel better. What I need i