ling that, in a way, the world
was created for him. Its fortuitous happenings strengthened that belief.
He had come home to lose Electra whom he did not love. Markham MacLeod,
who, he now saw, had been too bright a sun, blinding his eyes to his own
proper work, had been removed. Perhaps that, too, was done for him. And
now he should paint his pictures. The Brotherhood still seemed far off
and, if not vain, at least a clamorous sea of discontent, the hope of a
palace beautiful beyond the touch of time. But near him were dear and
intimate things: the feel of the brush in his fingers, the adorable
combination of colors as delirious as the sunsets God could make. And in
the future there were men and women who also would go singing along the
path to perfect pictures and leafy glades. In them was infinite
possibility of more pleasure, more delight. And there was his broken
heart! For Peter's heart was truly broken. That he knew. He had lost
Rose, for she had gravely told him so, and given the simple reason, if
he needed it. There was no man for her but one. And the one was Osmond,
to whom he would gladly relinquish even the delight of her. So, thinking
of his brother who was the best thing born, of his broken heart, of his
pictures and the general adorableness of the world, crammed full of
things to paint, Peter threw his stick into the air, caught it, and
burst into song.

* * * * *

When the maids had left, after their good-by to Madam Fulton, giving the
keys into her hand, she sat awhile in the silent house, and took a
comfortable nap. It was amazing, she thought, as she sank off, what a
lessening of tension it was to have Electra gone. When she awoke, it was
still quiet and Billy Stark had not come. He was to run down from town,
his last preparations made; the country minister was to meet them at the
Grant house, and there they would be married. Then they would take the
late afternoon train, and, in due course, sail for Liverpool. Even
Bessie Grant did not guess they were to be married; but she, Madam
Fulton knew, was ready for the last trump and welcoming evangels, and
that prepared her for all lesser things.

It seemed a little chilly in the house, shut up as it was for the
flitting, all except the room where Madam Fulton sat, and she took her
chair out of doors, not pausing on the veranda, but going on to the
garden beds. It would be pleasant, she thought, to sit there in the sun
with