to her, but Silverton had a power to lock
all the softer avenues of his heart, and so he answered that the
Mountain House was preferable, that the rooms were engaged, and that as
he should enjoy it so much better he thought they would make no change.

Katy did not cry, nor utter a word of remonstrance; she was fast
learning that quiet submission was better than useless opposition, and
so Silverton was again given up. But there was one consolation. Seeing
Marian Hazelton would be almost as good as going home, for had she not
recently come from that neighborhood, bringing with her the odor from
the hills and freshness from the woods. Perhaps, too, she had lately
seen Helen or Morris at church, and had heard the music of the organ
which Helen played, and the singing of the children just as it sometimes
came to Katy in her dreams, making her start in her sleep and murmur
snatches of the sacred songs which Dr. Morris taught. Yes, Marian could
tell her of all this, and very impatiently Katy waited for the morning
when she would drive around to Fourth Street with the piles of sewing
she was going to take to Marian.

"Dear Marian, I wonder is she very poor?" Katy thought, as she next day
made her preparations for the call, and had Wilford been parsimoniously
inclined, he might have winced could he have seen the numerous stores
gathered up for Marian and packed away in the carriage with the bundle
of cambric and linen and lace, all destined for that fourth-story
chamber where Marian Hazelton sat that summer morning, looking drearily
out upon the dingy court and contrasting its sickly patch of grass,
embellished with rain water barrels, coal hods and ash pails, with the
country she had so lately left, the wooded hills and blooming gardens of
Silverton, which had been her home for nearly two years.

It was a fault of Marian's not to remain long contented in any place,
and so tiring of the country she had returned to the great city, urged
on by a strange desire it may be to see Mrs. Wilford Cameron, to know
just how she lived, to judge if she were happy, and perhaps--some time
see Wilford Cameron, herself unknown, for not for the world would she
have met face to face the man who had so often stood by Genevra
Lambert's grave in the churchyard beyond the sea. Thinking she might
succeed better alone, she had hired a room far up the narrow stairway of
a high, somber-looking building, and then from her old acquaintances, of
whom she