In the next panel hung Matilda, his wife, as the massive marble in the cemetery said,—­a youthful person with side curls and a comfortable smile.

Even with its southern windows the dining room was sombre in its massive furnishings of Flemish oak.  Very different from the one at home, with its sunshine and flowers, its overflow of books from the study, and the odds and ends of pottery picked up by father and Cousin Louis in their travels.

Rosalind was thinking that the plain little room of the magician was the pleasantest place she knew in Friendship, when Martin entered with something in his hand, announcing in his courtly way, “A book for Miss Rosalind.”  It seemed to her that Martin, with his grizzled head and dusky face, had the most beautiful manners ever seen.

“For me, Martin?” she exclaimed.

“The young gentleman from next door left it,” said Martin.

“I did not know you knew any one next door, Rosalind,” Mrs. Whittredge remarked questioningly.

“I am not very well acquainted, grandmamma,” Rosalind answered, seeing suddenly in the handsome face a likeness to the dark portrait; “but I talked to Maurice through the hedge this morning.  I remember now, I had my book.  I must have left it on the grass.”

“I believe Rosalind seldom loses an opportunity to speak to people.  Miss Herbert says she is on quite intimate terms with Morgan,” remarked Miss Genevieve.

“Father told me about Morgan,” Rosalind began apologetically, adding more confidently, “I like to know people.”

“Your father over again,” Mrs. Whittredge said, smiling.  “What is your book, dear?”

“‘As You Like It.’  Cousin Louis gave it to me.”  As she spoke Rosalind caught the glance exchanged by her grandmother and aunt.

“When I was a little girl Cousin Louis told me the story because it is about Rosalind, you know, and ever since I have called it my story, because I like it best of all.”

No comment was made on this explanation, and it seemed to her the next time she looked in his direction, that Uncle Allan frowned.

When luncheon was over she went out to the garden seat under the birch, carrying with her an old green speller found in a bookcase upstairs.  In the back of it she had discovered the deaf and dumb alphabet, so now she would not have to wait for Maurice to teach her; she could learn it by herself.  It did not seem difficult.  With the spelling book propped open in one corner of the bench she went carefully over it, and then tried to think of words she was most likely to want to use in talking with Morgan; but this was slower work, and the thought that for some unknown reason her grandmother was displeased with her kept claiming her attention.

When father was displeased with her—­and this was not often—­he always told her, and they talked it over frankly, but grandmamma and Aunt Genevieve only looked at each other and said nothing.  It both puzzled her and hurt her dignity to be treated in this way.