of satisfaction and comfort in the mere act of breathing--something
that seemed to claim for her a right as a perfect work of nature to
exist and be admired equally with a rare flower or some beautiful,
milk-white dove among its sober-hued companions.

She was dressed in a white waist and dark skirt--that discreet
masquerade of goose-girl and duchess.

"Vivienne," said Hartley, looking at her pleadingly, "you did not
answer my last letter. It was only by nearly a week's search that I
found where you had moved to. Why have you kept me in suspense when
you knew how anxiously I was waiting to see you and hear from you?"

The girl looked out the window dreamily.

"Mr. Hartley," she said hesitatingly, "I hardly know what to say to
you. I realize all the advantages of your offer, and sometimes I feel
sure that I could be contented with you. But, again, I am doubtful.
I was born a city girl, and I am afraid to bind myself to a quiet
suburban life."

"My dear girl," said Hartley, ardently, "have I not told you that you
shall have everything that your heart can desire that is in my power
to give you? You shall come to the city for the theatres, for
shopping and to visit your friends as often as you care to. You can
trust me, can you not?"

"To the fullest," she said, turning her frank eyes upon him with a
smile. "I know you are the kindest of men, and that the girl you get
will be a lucky one. I learned all about you when I was at the