a millstone about a man's neck a woman can be!"--haunted her
continually. Still oftener rose before her Miss Burton's flushed
and kindled face, and the artist's emphatic assertion of the power
of mind and character to add to native beauty. Had she not been a
millstone about her father's neck? Was there not a fatal flaw in
the beauty of which she was so proud, that spoiled it for eyes that
were critical and unblinded?

Oppressed by these thoughts and being in no mood for her cousin's
banter, or the artist's society which always seemed to render her
more uncomfortable, she was glad to escape to the solitude of her
own room.

Another "revelation" was slowly dawning upon her mind, namely--just
what she, Ida Mayhew, was. A woman is an "inspiration" or a
"millstone according to what she is," this stranger, this disturber
of her peace, from whom it seemed she could not escape, had not only
asserted but proved by showing her a lady she would have passed as
plain and insignificant, but who nevertheless possessed some sweet
potency that won and cheered all hearts, and who, she was compelled
to admit, was positively beautiful as she sat at the piano, radiant
with her purpose to cause gladness in others. Miss Burton had
created sunshine enough to enliven the dismal day, and had quickened a
hundred pulses with pleasure. She had been a burden even to herself.

Everything, from the artist's first disturbing frown to the present
hour, had been preparing the way for the sharp and painful contrast
that circumstances had forced upon her attention to-day.

But the thought that troubled her most, was that he saw this contrast