face you have just seen in the portrait--that of Dr. and Mrs. Ashton's
only daughter. The wondrously sunny expression of countenance, blended
with strange sweetness, was even more conspicuous than in the portrait.
But what perhaps struck a beholder most, when looking at Miss Ashton for
the first time, was a nameless grace and refinement that distinguished
her whole appearance. She was of middle height, not more; slender; her
head well set upon her shoulders. This was her own room; the schoolroom
of her girlhood, the sitting-room she had been allowed to call her own
since then. Books, work, music, a drawing-easel, and various other items,
presenting a rather untidy collection, met the eye. This morning it was
particularly untidy. The charts covered the table; one of them lay on the
carpet; and a pot of mignonette had been overturned inside the open
window scattering some of the mould. She was very busy; the open sleeves
of her lilac-muslin dress were thrown back, and her delicate hands were
putting the finishing touches in pencil to a plan she had been copying,
from one of the maps. A few minutes more, and the pencil was thrown down
in relief.

"I won't colour it this morning; it must be quite an hour and a half
since I began; but the worst is done, and that's worth a king's ransom."
In the escape from work, the innocent gaiety of her heart, she broke into
a song, and began waltzing round the room. Barely had she passed the open
window, her back turned to it, when a gentleman came up, looked in,
stepped softly over the threshold, and imprisoned her by the waist.

"Be quiet, Arthur. Pick up that mignonette-pot you threw down, sir."

"My darling!" came in a low, heartfelt whisper. And Miss Ashton, with a
faint cry, turned to see her engaged lover, Val Elster.