ere the instinct of the born advertiser betrays
itself. Let us think." Norah buried her face in her hands.

Marion watched her with a half smile, then as an expression of
weariness stole into her face she restored the glasses and sighed, as
with her elbow supported on a ledge of rock she rested her chin in her
palm and looked down on the swift running water. She was extremely
slender, and it was easy to guess she was also tall, and that, seen at
her best, she was a person of grace and elegance rather than beauty.

"I have it," Norah cried presently. "_The Pleasant Street Shop._"

"Or _The Neighborhood Shop_," Marion suggested.

"No, let us have Pleasant Street in it. It seems a good omen that the
street is called Pleasant."

Marion smiled. "Have you told Dr. Baird?" she asked.

"Yes. He said I should be a novelist, and confine my wild-goose
schemes to paper."

"_The Notions of Norah_ would be a taking title," laughed Marion, the
weariness gone from her face.

"But as I told him, 'Deeds, not Dreams,' is my motto, and I'll show
him if it is a wild-goose scheme. I am convinced that deep down in his
heart he was interested; and although he made no promises, I believe
we may count on him."

CHAPTER THIRD

AN ALIEN

With the swiftness of a small tornado, Charlotte descended the long,
straight stairway only to sink in a heap on the broad step at the
bottom. "Oh, dear!" she said, her chin in her hand, "Oh, _dear_!"

A ray of sunlight falling through the side-lights of the door with
their pattern of fleur-de-lis on a crimson ground, cast a rosy stain
on the neutral-tinted carpet and brought to notice a few atoms of dust
on one of the rosewood chairs that stood to attention on either side
of the tall hat-rack. The wall against which they were ranged was done
in varnished paper to represent oak panelling, and on it hung one or
two steel engravings.

"If only something were crooked!" Charlotte sighed.

Now at Aunt Cora's nothing was straight. Etchings and water colors
fought for the honors of the walls, and chased each other up the side
of the stairway. Tables and shelves were crowded with trifles, costly
and otherwise, the chairs were deep and cushiony, except now and then
a gilt toy which was distinctly for show; the divans were smothered
with gay pillows. In contrast this house in Kenton Terrace seemed
unbearably stiff and prim.

Why had not Uncle Landor allowed her to stay with him instead of
sending