Maria worked silently; and as she worked she dreamed, and the dream was visible on her face, had any one been astute enough to understand it.  She was working a lace collar to wear with a certain blue blouse, and upon that flimsy keystone was erecting an air-castle.  She was going to the Elliot Academy, wearing the blue blouse and the lace collar, and looking so lovely that Wollaston Lee worshipped her.  She invented little love-scenes, love-words, and caresses.  She blushed, and dimples appeared at the corners of her mouth, the blue light of her eyes under her downcast lids was like the light of living gems.  She viewed with complacency her little, soft white hands plying the needle.  Maria had hands like a little princess.  She cast a glance at the toe of her tiny shoe.  She remembered how somebody had told her to keep her shoulders straight, and she threw them back with a charming motion, as if they had been wings.  She was entirely oblivious of her father’s covert glances.  She was solitary, isolated in the crystal of her own thoughts.  Presently, Evelyn woke and cried, and Maria roused herself with a start and ran up-stairs.  Soon the two came into the room, Evelyn dancing with the uncertain motion of a winged seed on a spring wind.  She was charming.  One round cheek was more deeply flushed than the other, and creased with the pillow.  Her yellow hair, fine and soft and full of electric life, tossed like a little crest.  She ran with both fat little hands spread palms outward, and pounced violently upon her father.  Harry rolled her about on his knee, and played with her as if she had been a kitten.  Maria stood by laughing.  The child was fairly screaming with mirth.

A graceful figure passed the window, its garments tightly wrapped by the wind, flying out like a flag behind.  Harry set the little girl down at once.

“Here is mamma coming,” said he.  “Go to sister and she will show you the pictures in the book papa brought home the other day.”

Evelyn obeyed.  She was a docile little thing, and she had a fear of her mother without knowing why.  She was sitting beside Maria, looking demurely at the pictures which her sister pointed out to her, when Ida entered.

“See the horsey running away,” said Maria.  Then she added in a whisper, “Go and kiss mamma, baby.”

The child hesitated, then she rose, and ran to her mother, who stooped her radiant face over her and kissed her coolly.

“Have you been a good little girl?” asked she.  Ida was looking particularly self-satisfied to day, and more disposed consequently to question others as to their behavior.

“Yeth,” replied Evelyn, without the slightest hesitation.  A happy belief in her own merits was an inheritance from her mother.  As yet it was more charming than otherwise, for the baby had unquestionable merits in which to believe.  Harry and Maria laughed.