all like McFudd's, which was as soft as the back of
a kitten and without a seam.

Then his eyes sought her face. He noticed how
brown she was--and how ruddy and healthy. How
red the lips--red as mountain-berries, and back of
them big white teeth--white as peeled almonds. He
caught the line of the shoulders and the round of the
full arm and tapering wrist, and the small, well-
shaped hand. "Queer clothes," he said to himself
--"but the girl inside is all right."

Sitting under the shadow of the old bridge on the
main highway, each weighed and balanced the other,
even as they talked aloud of the Academy School,
and the pupils, and the dear old Professor whom they
both loved. They discussed the prospect of its doors
being opened the next winter. They talked of Mrs.
Mulligan, and the old Italian who sold peanuts,
and whose head Margaret had painted; and of Jack
Bedford and Fred Stone--the dearest fellow in the
world--and last year's pictures--especially Church's
"Niagara," the sensation of the year, and Whittredge's
"Mountain Brook," and every other subject
their two busy brains could rake and scrape up except
--and this subject, strange to say, was the only one
really engrossing their two minds--the overturning
of Mr. Judson's body on the art-school floor, and the
upsetting of Miss Grant's mind for days thereafter.
Once Oliver had unintentionally neared the danger-