furnishings of Flemish oak. Very different from the one at home, with its
sunshine and flowers, its overflow of books from the study, and the odds
and ends of pottery picked up by father and Cousin Louis in their travels.

Rosalind was thinking that the plain little room of the magician was the
pleasantest place she knew in Friendship, when Martin entered with
something in his hand, announcing in his courtly way, "A book for Miss
Rosalind." It seemed to her that Martin, with his grizzled head and dusky
face, had the most beautiful manners ever seen.

"For me, Martin?" she exclaimed.

"The young gentleman from next door left it," said Martin.

"I did not know you knew any one next door, Rosalind," Mrs. Whittredge
remarked questioningly.

"I am not very well acquainted, grandmamma," Rosalind answered, seeing
suddenly in the handsome face a likeness to the dark portrait; "but I
talked to Maurice through the hedge this morning. I remember now, I had my
book. I must have left it on the grass."

"I believe Rosalind seldom loses an opportunity to speak to people. Miss
Herbert says she is on quite intimate terms with Morgan," remarked Miss
Genevieve.

"Father told me about Morgan," Rosalind began apologetically, adding more
confidently, "I like to know people."

"Your father over again," Mrs. Whittredge said, smiling. "What is your