hen the
open sea, with infinite spaces of shining blue, and a wake of pearl and
silver following the ship. Dreams and moonbeams and starry twilights,
from the other side of the world--here, my dear, I give them all to
you."

She offered Rosemary the cup as she concluded and the girl smiled back
at her happily. This was all so different from the battered metal
tea-pot that always stood on the back of the stove at Grandmother's, to
be boiled and re-boiled until the colour was gone from the leaves. Alden
was looking into his cup with assumed anxiety.

[Sidenote: In the Bottom of the Cup]

"What's the matter, dear?" asked his mother. "Isn't it right?"

"I was looking for the poem," he laughed, "and I see nothing but a
stranger."

"Coming?" she asked, idly.

"Of course. See?"

"You're right--a stranger and trouble. What is there in your cup,
Rosemary?"

"Nothing at all," she answered, with a smile, "but a little bit of
sugar--just a few grains."

Alden came and looked over her shoulder. Then, with his arm over the
back of her chair, he pressed his cheek to hers. "I hope, my dear, that
whenever you come to the dregs, you'll always have that much sweetness
left."

Rosemary, flushed and embarrassed, made her adieus awkwardly. "Come
again very soon, dear, won't you?" asked Madame.

"Yes, indeed, if I may, and thank you so much. Good-bye, Mrs. Marsh."

"'Mrs. Marsh?'" repeated the old lady, reproachfully. Some memory of her
lost Virginia made her very tender toward the motherless girl.

"May I?" Rosemary faltered. "Do you mean it?"

Madame smiled and lifted her beautiful old face. Rosemary stooped and
kissed her. "Mother," she said, for the first time in her life. "Dear
Mother! Good-bye!"

VII

A Letter and a Guest

[Sidenote: An Unexpected Missive]

"A letter for you, Mother," Alden tossed a violet-scented envelope into
the old lady's lap as he spoke, and stood there, waiting.

"For me!" she exclaimed. Letters for either of them were infrequent. She
took it up curiously, scrutinised the address, sniffed at the fragrance
the missive carried, noted the postmark, which was that of the town near
by, and studied the waxen purple seal, stamped with indistinguishable
initials.

"I haven't the faintest idea whom it's from," she said, helplessly.

"Why not open it and see?" he suggested, with kindly sarcasm. His
assumed carelessness scarcely veiled his own interest in it.

"You always were a bright