es like those ironing-board seat-tables,
you know--then they can dance there. Small reception room and office,
hall, kitchen and laundry, and thirty bedrooms, forty by thirty, with an
"ell" for the laundry, ought to do it, oughtn't it?"

Mrs. Porne agreed to make plans, and did so most successfully, and Mr.
Porne found small difficulty in persuading an investor to put up such a
house, which visibly could be used as a boarding-house or small hotel,
if it failed in its first purpose.

It was built of concrete, a plain simple structure, but fine in
proportions and pleasantly colored.

Diantha kept her plans to herself, as usual, but they grew so fast that
she felt a species of terror sometimes, lest the ice break somewhere.

"Steady, now!" she would say. "This is real business, just plain
business. There's no reason why I shouldn't succeed as well as Fred
Harvey. I will succeed. I am succeeding."

She kept well, she worked hard, she was more than glad to have her
mother with her; but she wanted something else, which seemed farther off
than ever. Her lover's picture hung on the wall of her bedroom, stood on
her bureau, and (but this was a secret) a small one was carried in her
bosom.

Rather a grim looking young woman, Diantha, with the cares of the world
of house-keepers upon her proud young shoulders; with all the stirring
hopes to be kept within bounds, all the skulking fears to be resisted,
and the growing burden of a large affair to be carried steadily.

But when she woke, in the brilliant California mornings, she would lie
still a few moments looking at the face on the wall and the face on the
bureau; would draw the little picture out from under her pillow and kiss
it, would say to herself for the thousandth time, "It is for him, too."

She missed him, always.

The very vigor of her general attitude, the continued strength with
which she met the days and carried them, made it all the more needful
for her to have some one with whom she could forget every care, every
purpose, every effort; some one who would put strong arms around her and
call her "Little Girl." His letters were both a comfort and a pain. He
was loyal, kind, loving, but always that wall of disapproval. He loved
her, he did not love her work.

She read them over and over, hunting anew for the tender phrases, the
things which seemed most to feed and comfort her. She suffered not only
from her loneliness, but from his; and most keenly from his s