ies lingered on.

"The place is dull for you," said Mangles, "now that Cartoner seems to
have left us for good. His gay and sparkling conversation would enliven
any circle."

And beneath his shaggy brows he glanced at Netty, whose smooth cheek did
not change color, while her eyes met his with an affectionate smile.

"You seemed to have plenty to say to each other coming across the
Atlantic," she said. "I always found you with your heads close together
whenever I came on deck."

"Don't think we sparkled much," said Joseph, with his under lip well
forward.

"It is very kind of Uncle Joseph," said Netty, afterwards, to Miss
Mangles, "to suggest that we should go south, and, of course, it would
be lovely to feel the sunshine again, but we could not leave him, could
we? You must not think of me, auntie; I am quite happy here, and should
not enjoy the Riviera at all if we left uncle all alone here."

Julie had a strict sense of duty, which, perhaps, Netty was cognizant
of; and the subject was never really brought under discussion. During a
particularly bad spell of weather Mr. Mangles again and again suggested
that he should be left at Warsaw, but on each occasion Netty came
forward with that complete unselfishness and sweet forethought for
others which all who knew her learned to look for in her every action.

Warsaw, she admitted, was dull, and the surrounding country simply
impossible. But the winter could not last forever, she urged, with a
little shiver. And it really was quite easy to keep warm if one went for
a brisk walk in the morning. To prove this she put on the new furs which
Joseph had bought her, and which were very becoming to her delicate
coloring, and set out full of energy. She usually went to the Saski
Gardens, the avenues of which were daily swept and kept clear of snow;
and as often as not, she accidentally met Prince Martin Bukaty there.
Sometimes she crossed the bridge to Praga, and occasionally turned her
steps down the Bednarska to the side of the river which was blocked
by ice now, wintry and desolate. The sand-workers were still laboring,
though navigation was, of course, at a stand-still.

Netty never saw Kosmaroff, however, who had gone as suddenly as he
came--had gone out of her life as abruptly as he burst into it, leaving
only the memory of that high-water mark of emotion to which he had
raised her. Leaving also that blankest of all blanks in the feminine
heart, an unsatisfied curiosit