tever," said Margaret, holding
up her hand helplessly, like a wounded wing.

Richard took the fingers between his palms, and chafed them
smartly for a moment or two to restore the suspended circulation.

"There, that will do," said Margaret, withdrawing her hand.

"Are you all right now?"

"Yes, thanks;" and then she added, smiling, "I suppose a
scientific fellow could explain why my fingers seem to be full of hot
pins and needles shooting in every direction."

"Tyndall's your man--Tyndall on Heat," answered Richard, with a
laugh, turning to examine the result of his work. "The mold is
perfect, Margaret. You were a good girl to keep so still."

Richard then proceeded to make the cast, which was soon placed on
the window-ledge to harden in the sun. When the plaster was set, he
cautiously chipped off the shell with a chisel, Margaret leaning over
his shoulder to watch the operation,--and there was the little white
claw, which ever after took such dainty care of his papers, and
ultimately became so precious to him as a part of Margaret's very
self that he would not have exchanged it for the Venus of Milo.

But as yet Richard was far enough from all that.

X

Three years glided by with Richard Shackford as swiftly as those
periods of time which are imagined to elapse between the acts of a
play. They were eventless, untroubled years, and have no history.
Nevertheless, certain changes had taken place. Little by little Mr.
Slocum had relinquished the supervision of the workshops to Richard,
until now the affairs of the yard rested chiefly on his shoulders. It
was like a dream to him when he looked directly back to his humble
beginning, though as he reflected upon it, and retraced his progress
step by step, he saw there was nothing illogical or astonishing in
his good fortune. He had won it by downright hard work and the
faithful exercise of a sufficing talent.

In his relations with Margaret, Richard's attitude had undergone
no appreciable change. Her chance visits to the studio through the
week and those pleasant, half-idle Saturday afternoons had become to
both Richard and Margaret a matter of course, like the sunlight, or
the air they breathed.

To Richard, Margaret Slocum at nineteen was simply a charming,
frank girl,--a type of gracious young womanhood. He was conscious of
her influence; he was very fond of Margaret; but she had not yet
taken on for him that magic individuality which makes a woman th