every day in the little grey woman who directed her studies, her play,
her whole life.

The two were inseparable, light and shadow, morning and night. Betty's
mother in the house was the grand lady--beautiful to look upon--the
piece of bronze, or picture, that went with the house; but Miss Stone
was Betty's own--the little grey voice, a bit of heart-love, and
something common and precious.

They came down the long rooms together, the child's hand resting lightly
in hers, and her steps dancing a little in happy play. She had not heard
the man's name. He was only a wise man whom she was to meet for a few
minutes, before she and Miss Stone went for their drive. The day was
full of light outside--even in the heavily draped rooms you could feel
its presence. She was eager to be off, out in the sun and air of the
great sea of freshness, and the light, soft wind on her face.

Then she saw the slim, dark man who had risen to meet her, and a swift
light crossed her face.... She was coming down the room now, both hands
out-stretched, fluttering a little in the quick surprise and joy. Then
the hands stayed themselves, and she advanced demurely to meet him;
but the hand that lifted itself to his seemed to sing like a child's
hand--in spite of the princess.

"I am glad you have come," she said. "This is Miss Stone." She seated
herself beside him, her eyes on his face, her little feet crossed at the
ankle. "Have you any new fruit to-day?" she asked, politely.

He smiled a little, and drew a soft, flat, white bit of tissue from his
pocket, undoing it fold on fold--till in the centre lay a grey-green