“Oh, Dent, why did you ever ask me to marry you!” thought Pansy, in a moment of soul failure.

Mrs. Meredith was sitting on the veranda and was partly concealed by a running rose.  She was not expecting visitors; she had much to think of this morning, and she rose wonderingly and reluctantly as Pansy came forward:  she did not know who it was, and she did not advance.

Pansy ascended the steps and paused, looking with wistful eyes at the great lady who was to be her mother, but who did not even greet her.

“Good morning, Mrs. Meredith,” she said, in a shrill treble, holding herself somewhat in the attitude of a wooden soldier, “I suppose I shall have to introduce myself:  it is Pansy.”

The surprise faded from Mrs. Meredith’s face, the reserve melted.  With outstretched hands she advanced smiling.

“How do you do.  Pansy,” she said with motherly gentleness; “it is very kind of you to come and see me, and I am very glad to know you.  Shall we go in where it is cooler?”

They entered the long hall.  Near the door stood a marble bust:  each wall was lined with portraits.  She passed between Dent’s ancestors into the large darkened parlors.

“Sit here, won’t you?” said Mrs. Meredith, and she even pushed gently forward the most luxurious chair within her reach.  To Pansy it seemed large enough to hold all the children.  At home she was used to chairs that were not only small, but hard.  Wherever the bottom of a chair seemed to be in that household, there it was—­if it was anywhere.  Actuated now by this lifelong faith in literal furniture, she sat down with the utmost determination where she was bid; but the bottom offered no resistance to her descending weight and she sank.  She threw out her hands and her hat tilted over her eyes.  It seemed to her that she was enclosed up to her neck in what might have been a large morocco bath-tub—­which came to an end at her knees.  She pushed back her hat, crimson.

“That was a surprise,” she said, frankly admitting the fault, “but there’ll never be another such.”

“I am afraid you found it warm walking, Pansy,” said Mrs. Meredith, opening her fan and handing it to her.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Meredith, I never fan!” said Pansy, declining breathlessly.  “I have too much use for my hands.  I’d rather suffer and do something else.  Besides, you know I am used to walking in the sun.  I am very fond of botany, and I am out of doors for hours at a time when I can find the chance.”

Mrs. Meredith was delighted at the opportunity to make easy vague comment on a harmless subject.

“What a beautiful study it must be,” she said with authority.

“Must be!” exclaimed Pansy; “why, Mrs. Meredith, don’t you know?  Don’t you understand botany?”

Pansy had an idea that in Dent’s home botany was as familiarly apprehended as peas and turnips in hers.