vegetables, mostly of the mother's raising, had been sufficient for
their simple needs. They were well provided for the winter; and so
Dorian was happy and contented as everyone in like condition should be
on such an Indian summer afternoon.

Mildred Brown's visit to the farm had ended some weeks ago; but only
yesterday his mother had received a note from Mrs. Brown, asking if her
daughter might not come again. Her former visit had done her so much
good, and now the beautiful weather was calling her out into the
country. It was a shame, Mildred had said, that Indian summer should
"waste its sweetness on the desert air of the city."

"What do you say?" Mrs. Trent had asked Dorian.

"Why--why--of course, mother, if she doesn't make too much work for
you."

And so Mildred had received the invitation that she was very welcome to
come to Greenstreet and stay as long as she desired. Very likely, she
would be with them in a day or two, thought Dorian. She would draw and
paint, and then in the soft evening dusk she would play some of those
exquisite melodies on her violin. Mildred did not like people to speak
of her beloved instrument as a fiddle, and he remembered how she had
chastised him on one occasion for so doing. Yes, she would again enter
into their daily life. Her ladylike ways, her sweet smile, her golden
beauty would again glorify their humble home. Why, if she came often
enough and remained long enough, she might yet learn how to milk a cow,
as she had threatened to do. At the thought, the boy on the grass by the
nodding horses, laughed up into the sky. Dorian was happy; but whether
he preferred the somewhat nervous happiness of Mildred's presence or the