eyes her complacency seemed disturbed at once, for she flushed and
promptly turned her back upon them. In fact, from the time she
had first seen Van Berg's frowning face it had been a disagreeable
memory, and now here it was again and frowning still. Although
he sat at a distance from the landing-place, her eyes seemed drawn
towards his as if by some fascination, and she already had the
feeling that whenever he was present she would be conscious of his
cool, critical observation.

Van Berg had scarcely time to note a rather stout and overdressed
person emerge from the stage, how was evidently the young lady's
mother, when Ik Stanton, with his bays and a light country wagon,
dashed up to the main entrance. Stanton was an element in the
artistic problem that Van Berg had not bargained for, and what
influence he would have, friendly or adverse, only time could show.

While Stanton was accompanying his aunt and cousin to the register,
as the gentleman of the party, the young lady said to him:

"That horrid artist friend of yours is here. I wish he hadn't
come. Did you tell him we were coming here?"

"No, 'pon my honor."

"I have believe you did. If so I'll never forgive you, for the
very sight of him spoils everything."

"Come now, Coz, be reasonable. From all the indications I have
seen, Van Berg is the last man to follow you here or anywhere else,
even though he knew of your prospective movements. He is here, as