s post Cousin Patty is sending a box of her famous cake, for you
and Aunt Isabelle. There's enough for an army, so I shall think of you
as dispensing tea in the garden, with your friends about you--lucky
friends--and with the little bronze boy looking on and laughing.

To Mary of the Garden, then, this letter goes with all good wishes.

ROGER POOLE.

CHAPTER XIX

_In Which Porter Plants an Evil Seed Which Grows and Flourishes; and in
Which Ghosts Rise and Confront Mary._

As has been said, Porter Bigelow was not a snob, and he was a
gentleman. But even a gentleman can, when swayed by primal emotions,
convince himself that high motives rule, even while performing acts of
doubtful honor.

It was thus that Porter proved to himself that his interest in Roger
Poole's past was purely that of the protector and friend of Mary
Ballard. Mary must not throw herself away. Mary must be guarded
against the tragedy of marriage with a man who was not worthy. And who
could do this better than he?

In pursuance of his policy of protection he took his way one afternoon
in July to Colin's studio.

"I'm staying in town," Colin told him, "because of Miss Jeliffe. Her
father is held by the long Session. I'm painting another picture of
her, and fixing up these rooms in the interim--how do you like them?"

In his furnishing, Colin had broken away from conventional tradition.
Here were no rugs hung from balconies, no rich stuffs and suits of
armor. It was simply a cool little place, with a big window
overlooking one of the parks. Its walls were tinted gray, and there
were a few comfortable rattan chairs, with white linen cushions. A
portrait of Delilah dominated the room. He had painted her in the
costume which she had worn at the garden party--in all the glory of
cool greens and faint pink, and heavenly blue.

Porter surveying the portrait said, slowly, "You said that you had
painted--other women?"

"Yes--but none so satisfactory as Miss Jeliffe."

"There was the little saint--in red."

"You remember that? It is just a small canvas."

"You said you'd show it to me."

Colin, rummaging in a second room, called back, "I've found it, and
here's another, of a woman who seemed to fit in with a Botticelli
scheme. She was the long lank type."

Porter was not interested in the Botticelli woman, nor in Colin's
experiments. He wanted to see Roger Poole's wife, so he gave scant
attention to Colin's enthusiastic co