library of Mrs. Standish Tremont's Beacon street home. The last rays
of sunlight filtered softly through the rose silk curtains and blended
with the ruddy glow of fire-light. The atmosphere of this room was
more invitingly domestic than that of any other room in Mrs. Tremont's
somewhat bleakly luxurious home.

Perhaps it was the row upon row of books in their scarlet leather
bindings, perhaps it was the fine old collection of Dutch masterpieces,
portraying homely scenes from Dutch life, that robbed the air of the
chilling effect of the more formal rooms; but, whatever was the reason,
the fact remained that the library was the room in which to dream
dreams, appreciate comfort and be content.

At least so it seemed to Anna Moore, as she glanced from time to time
at the tiny French clock that silently ticked away the hours on the
high oaken mantel-piece. Anna had dressed for tea with more than usual
care on this particular Saturday afternoon. She wore a simply made
house gown of heavy white cloth, that hung in rich folds about her
exquisite figure, that might have seemed over-developed in a girl of
eighteen, were it not for the long slender throat and tapering waist of
more than usual slenderness.

The dark hair was coiled high on top of the shapely head, and a few
tendrils strayed about her neck and brow. She wore no ornaments--not
even the simplest pin.

She was curled up in a great leather chair, in front of the open fire,
playing with a white angora kitten, who climbed upon her shoulder and
generally conducted himself like a white ball of animated yarn. It was
too bad that there was no painter at hand to transfer to canvas so