When lunch was over, Mrs. Marvin led the way to the library, where the wood fire burned, and the little girl smiled down from above the mantle, and a great bunch of American Beauties bent their stately heads over a tall vase. What a combination of delights! Frances hung over the flowers with such pleasure in her eyes that her hostess said: "Do you like roses? You must take those with you when you go."

Mrs. Marvin took out a portfolio of photographs she thought might be interesting, and they went over them together. She knew perfectly how to be entertaining, and Frances enjoyed it very much, but when they came to the last one she said: "Mrs. Marvin, won't you tell me now about that portrait? I like it better than any picture I ever saw."

"Why, certainly, dear; that is my mother when she was a child. It is one of my greatest treasures."

Frances felt disappointed. "Then she is not a little girl now," she said.

"No; the picture was painted many years ago, in London, when my grandfather was Minister to England. My mother was an only child."

"I am an only child, too," Frances remarked, her eyes fixed on the portrait.

"Perhaps you will be interested to know that her name was the same as your own."

"Was it? And your name, too, is Frances, isn't it?"

"Yes, we are three of a name," was Mrs. Marvin's answer.

"I suppose--" Frances hesitated.

"What, dear?"

"I was going to ask if the little girl was alive now."

"No; she lived to grow up and marry, and died while she was still very young and beautiful, leaving three little children."

It was hard to realize that so much had happened to this bright-eyed girl; Frances wrinkled her brow in the effort, and sat very still. After a while she said, "I am glad her name was Frances; she always makes me think of the Girl in the Golden Doorway."

"What is that?" Mrs. Marvin inquired.

"It is one of father's stories," was the answer, and without much urging she told it, and told it well, because she was so fond of it. "It makes me want to see him so," she added with a sigh, at the end.

Mrs. Marvin listened, her face almost hidden by the screen she held.

"Did your father ever tell you anything more of his childhood?" she asked.

"Not very much. He went to live somewhere else, I think, and I don't know what became of the picture. There is something about it I don't understand, but some time I know he will tell me. I think a certain person has something to do with it."

"Whom do you mean by a certain person?"

"It is some one who was once a friend of father's, but is not now. That is all I know, except that I heard him tell mother he did not mind our staying here, because a certain person was abroad; but I guess maybe I oughtn't to say anything about it," Frances concluded uneasily.

The conversation was interrupted by a servant who announced a young man to take the little girl home.

"It is Mark," Frances exclaimed, jumping up.

While they had been talking the wind had grown quiet, and the rain had turned to a wet snow. Mark had brought her waterproof and overshoes, but Mrs. Marvin insisted upon ordering the carriage. She held Frances in her arms and kissed her as if she could not bear to let her go.

"I have had a beautiful time, and I am so much obliged for the roses,"

the child said, when at last she was released.

They drove home in state through the wet streets. "I tell you this is fine!" said Mark; "I mean to be rich some day."

"So do I," replied Frances from behind her roses, and neither of them dreamed what a lonely heart they had left behind them in that beautiful house.

CHAPTER FIFTEENTH.

A CONFIDENCE.

This second encounter with Mrs. Marvin both annoyed and puzzled Mrs.

Morrison. It had come about naturally enough, yet she could not help feeling that this lady's interest in a child she had not seen or heard of six weeks ago was extraordinary; and though she did not wish to spoil Frances' pleasure in her roses, she shook her head at the thought of what they must have cost.

The violets which arrived early on New Year's morning gave great satisfaction, although they were, after all, the cause of her disquietude. Half an hour later came an express package from Honolulu, containing some trifles of native manufacture in sandalwood and ivory, a number of photographs, and a long birthday letter.

"I almost wish," Mr. Morrison wrote, "that our new home was to be on this enchanting island. The box is for Frances' jewels when she gets them, the other things to be divided as you see fit. If it were not for the thought of two small persons in the house of the Spectacle Man away off in the United States, I should be strongly tempted to run over to China, it seems so near. But never mind! when Frances is grown we'll make a journey around the world."

"I think father is so nice," Frances remarked, as if she had but recently made his acquaintance, locking and unlocking her box with as much pleasure as if it had been full of jewels.

Mrs. Morrison laughed happily; she knew what her daughter meant but could not express the charm of sympathetic companionship. "Oh, Frances!"

she exclaimed quite gravely the next moment, "it has been good for us to do without him for a while. We are so happy together I am afraid it makes us selfish."

Mark left for school the first of the next week. His parting words to Mrs. Morrison were: "You have been awfully good to me, and I'll not forget some of the things you have said. The house has been a different place with you and the Princess here, and I hope I shall find you when I come back."

"I don't know about that," was the reply. "Just at present we are wanderers, but we must look out for a home before long; and wherever it is we'll be glad to see you."

After this, things quieted down into the old routine, only now Frances began to count the weeks that must pa.s.s before her father's return. By the first of April, if not sooner, he had promised.

She came down from her drawing lesson in great glee one morning. "Miss Sherwin's story has been taken, mother, and they are going to print it in March; aren't you glad? And they like the ill.u.s.trations, too, and say they will be glad to hear from her again; I saw the letter."

"It shows their good taste; I must go up and congratulate her," said Mrs. Morrison.

"She did not seem to care much about it, mother. I don't think she is quite happy," Frances remarked with an air of great penetration.

Mrs. Morrison had become very fond of Lillian. Over their Christmas work they had found each other out, and a real friendship had begun. Beneath the girl's somewhat cold and reserved manner there was a genuine sweetness and charm which had at once responded to the unaffected friendliness of the older woman.

Miss Moore professed to be extremely jealous, saying that already Lillian cared more for Mrs. Morrison than she did for her; and on the other hand, although she herself had been sociable to the last degree with her neighbors, they openly preferred her taciturn companion. "It is well that virtue is its own reward, for it certainly does not get any other, in my experience," she remarked whimsically.

"Don't be such a goose, Mary; you know everybody likes you," replied Miss Sherwin.

"Oh, yes, they like me, and say I am good-natured, because there is nothing else to be said. It is my fate to be commonplace, and I must make up my mind to it," and Miss Moore hurried away to her afternoon cla.s.s with her usual cheery face. Her moody friend was a puzzle to her, and she by no means begrudged her any companionship that would make her happier.

Miss Sherwin sat at her desk. Before her lay the envelope containing the check in payment for "The Story of the Missing Bridge," but she did not look like one whose efforts had been crowned with success. After a few ineffectual attempts to go to work, her head went down among the papers, and it was thus Mrs. Morrison found her.

"I knocked and thought I heard you answer," she said, "but even if I did not, I can't go away now without trying to comfort you."

The pressure of the arm around her, the touch of the soft hand, was too grateful to be resisted; Lillian leaned her head against her friend as she sobbed, "It is only that I am such a goose!"