the marshalls were always at home to their friend on friday afternoons, and there were already several guests in the beautiful, quaint old drawing-room when the quartet entered. mrs. marshall, her white hair looking lovely under her soft lace cap, came forward to meet her visitors. her kind eyes looked with appreciation and welcome at one and all. blushing and shame-faced prissie received a pleasant word of greeting, which seemed in some wonderful way to steady her nerves. hammond and maggie were received as special and very dear friends, and helen marshall, the old lady's pretty grand-daughter, rushed forward to embrace her particular friend, constance field.

maggie felt sore; she scarcely knew why. her voice was bright, her eyes shining, her cheeks radiant in their rich and lovely bloom. but there was a quality in her voice which hammond recognized— a certain ring which meant defiance and which prophesied to those who knew her well that one of her bad half-hours was not very far off.

maggie seated herself near a girl who was a comparative stranger and began to talk. hammond drew near and made a third in the conversation. maggie talked in the brilliant, somewhat reckless fashion which she occasionally adopted. hammond listened, now and then uttered a short sentence, now and then was silent, with disapproval in his eyes.

maggie read their expression like a book.

"he shall be angry with me," she said to herself. her words became a little wilder. the sentiments she uttered were the reverse of those hammond held.

soon a few old friends came up. they were jolly, merry, good-humored girls, who were all prepared to look up to maggie oliphant and to worship her beauty and cleverness if she would allow them. maggie welcomed the girls with effusion, let them metaphorically sit at her feet and proceeded to disenchant them as hard as she could.

some garbled accounts of the auction at st. benet's had reached them, and they were anxious to get a full report from miss oliphant. did she not think it a scandalous sort of thing to have occurred?

"not at all," answered maggie in her sweetest tones; "it was capital fun, i assure you."

"were you really there?" asked miss duncan, the eldest of the girls. "we heard it, of course, bur could scarcely believe it possible."

"of course i was there," replied maggie. "whenever there is something really amusing going on, i am always in the thick of it."

"well!" emily duncan looked at her sister susan. susan raised her brows. hammond took a photograph from a table which stood near and pretended to examine it.

"shall i tell you about the auction?" asked maggie.

"oh, please, if you would be so kind. i suppose, as you were present, such a thing could not really lower the standard of the college?" these words came from susan duncan, who looked at hammond as she spoke. she was his cousin and very fond of him.

"please tell us about the auction," he said, looking full at maggie.

"i will," she replied, answering his gaze with a flash of repressed irritation. "the auction was splendid fun! one of our girls was in debt, and she had to sell her things. oh, it was capital! i wish you could have seen her acting as her own auctioneer. some of us were greedy and wanted her best things. i was one of those. she sold a sealskin jacket, an expensive one, quite new. there is a legend in the college that eighty guineas were expended on it. well, i bid for the sealskin and it was knocked down to me for ten. it is a little too big for me, of course, but when it is cut to my figure, it will make a superb winter garment."

maggie was clothed now in velvet and sable; nothing could be richer than her attire; nothing more mocking than her words.

"you were fortunate," said susan duncan. "you got your sealskin at a great bargain. didn't she, geoffrey?"

"i don't think so," replied hammond.

"why not? oh, do tell us why not," cried the sisters eagerly.

he bowed to them, laughed as lightly as maggie would have done and said in a careless tone: "my reasons are complex and too many to mention. i will only say now that what is objectionable to possess can never be a bargain to obtain. in my opinion, sealskin jackets are detestable."

with these words he strode across the room and seated himself with a sigh of relief by priscilla's side.

"what are you doing all by yourself?" he said cheerfully. "is no one attending to you? are you always to be left like a poor little forsaken mouse in the background?"

"i am not at all lonely," said prissie.

"i thought you hated to be alone."

"i did, the other day, in that drawing-room; but not in this. people are all kind in this."

"you are right. our hostess is most genial and sympathetic."

"and the guests are nice, too," said prissie; "at least, they look nice."

"ay, but you must not be taken in by appearances. some of them only look nice."

"do you mean—" began prissie in her abrupt, anxious voice.

hammond took alarm. he remembered her peculiar outspokenness.

"i don't mean anything," he said hastily. "by the way, are you fond of pictures?"

"i have scarcely ever seen any."

"that does not matter. i know by your face that you can appreciate some pictures."

"but, really, i know nothing of art."

"never mind. if the painter who paints knows you——"

"the painter knows me? i have never seen an artist in my life."

"nevertheless, there are some artists in the world who have conceived of characters like yours. there are some good pictures in this house. shall i show you one or two?"

prissie sprang to her feet.

"you are most kind," she said elusively. "i really don't know how to thank you."

"you need not thank me at all; or, at any rate, not in such a loud voice, not so impressively. our neighbors will think i have bestowed half a kingdom upon you."

prissie blushed and looked down.

"don't be shocked, with me," said hammond. "i can read your grateful heart. come this way"

they passed maggie oliphant and her two or three remaining satellites. prissie looked at her with longing and tripped awkwardly against her chair. hammond walked past maggie as if she did not exist to him. maggie nodded affectionately to priscilla and followed the back of hammond's head and shoulders with a supercilious, amused smile.

hammond opened the outer drawing-room door.

"where are we going?" asked priscilla. "are not the pictures here?"

"some are here, but the best are in the picture gallery— here to the left and down these steps. now, i'm going to introduce you to a new world."

he pushed aside a heavy curtain, and prissie found herself in a rather small room, lighted from the roof. it contained in all about six or eight pictures, each the work of a master.

hammond walked straight across the gallery to a picture which occupied a wall by itself at the further end. it represented a summer scene of deep repose. there was water in the foreground, in the back tall forest trees in the fresh, rich foliage of june. overhead was a sunset sky, its saffron and rosy tints reflected in the water below. the master who painted the picture was corot.

hammond motioned priscilla to sit down opposite to it.

"there is summer." he said; "peace, absolute repose. you have not to go to it; it comes to you."

he did not say any more, but walked away to look at another picture in a different part of the gallery.

prissie clasped her hands; all the agitation and eagerness went out of her face. she leaned back in her chair. her attitude partook of the quality of the picture and became restful. hammond did not disturb her for several moments.

"i am going to show you something different now," he said, coming up to her almost with reluctance. "there is one sort of rest; i will now show you a higher. here stand so. the light falls well from this angle. now, what do you see?"

"i don't understand it," said prissie after a long, deep gaze.

"never mind, you see something. tell me what you see."

priscilla looked again at the picture.

"i see a woman," she said at last in a slow, pained kind of voice. "i can't see her face very well, but i know by the way she lies back in that chair that she is old and dreadfully tired. oh, yes, i know well that she is tired— see her hand stretched out there— her hand and her arm— how thin they are— how worn— and——"

"hard worked," interrupted hammond. "any one can see by the attitude of that hand, by the starting veins and the wrinkles that the woman has gone through a life of labor. well, she does not occupy the whole of the picture. you see before you a tired-out worker. don't be so unhappy about her. look up a little higher in the picture. observe for yourself that her toils are ended."

"who is that other figure?" said priscilla. "a woman too, but young and strong. how glad she looks and how kind. she is carrying a little child in her arms. who is she? what does she mean?"

"that woman, so grand and strong, represents death, but not under the old metaphor. she comes with renewed life— the child is the type of that— she comes as a deliverer. see, she is touching that poor worn-out creature, who is so tired that she can scarcely hold her head up again. death, with a new aspect and a new, grand strength in her face is saying to this woman, 'come with me now to your rest. it is all over,' death says: all the trouble and perplexity and strife. come away with me and rest. the name of that picture is 'the deliverer.' it is the work of a painter who can preach a sermon, write a book, deliver an oration and sing a song all through the medium of his brush. i won't trouble you with his name just now. you will hear plenty of him and his wonderful, great pictures by and by, if you love art as i do."

"thank you," said prissie simply. some tears stole down her cheeks. she did not know she was crying; she did not attempt to wipe them away.