chairs and couches, having soft cushions. On the floor were rugs, the
work of the Old One's hands, during these long years. Day by day, hour
by hour, the woman had drawn the threads through the warp, inventing
the designs, forming beautiful figures with tints that harmonized.
Here were the faints-colors of the ever-varying opal; the bright blue
of the turquoise, the rose hues of the blossoms on the tea-rose, the
aqua-marine tints of the Mediterranean Sea. Truly oriental they were,
giving a hint of the Eastern origin of the Old One. Like some
godmother in the fairy tale, like some ancient wife of mythological
times, the Old One had wrought into these designs her own life. And
what had been her thoughts during those long hours and days and years?

Virgilia's face was not streaming with tears, as her father had
expected to see her. In fact, her eyes glowed with softness and
beauty. Yet there was a set look about her mouth which the lawyer knew
by past experience meant wilfulness.

The sympathy which had caused his heart to grow tender, vanished at
sight of this radiant young being as beautiful as a goddess who bathes
her face in the early morning dew, with the stubborn mouth.

Claudia was right. Something effectual must be done to bring this
lovely culprit to her senses.

"Thou hast grieved thy mother very much by thy disobedience and
irreverence," he said, coldly.

"I am truly sorry, dear father. For that I am truly sorry. But, thou
seest, I could not help it. It is wrong to offer flowers and prayers
to the gods."