But it was often hard to thwart the docile child, and lately she had seemed to be growing up so fast that her mother began to feel a new sort of tenderness for this sweet daughter, who was almost ready to take upon herself the cares, as well as triumphs and delights, of maidenhood.  Something in the droop of the brown head, and the quick motion of the busy hand with a little burn on it, made it difficult for Mrs. Grant to keep Merry at work that day, and her eye watched the clock almost as impatiently as the girl’s, for she liked to see the young face brighten when the hour of release came.

“What next?” asked Merry, as the last stitch was set, and she stifled a sigh on hearing the clock strike four, for the sun was getting low, and the lovely afternoon going fast.

“One more job, if you are not too tired for it.  I want the receipt for diet drink Miss Dawes promised me; would you like to run down and get it for me, dear?”

“Yes, mother!” and that answer was as blithe as a robin’s chirp, for that was just where Merry wanted to go.

Away went thimble and scissors, and in five minutes away went Merry, skipping down the hill without a care in the world, for a happy heart sat singing within, and everything seemed full of beauty.

She had a capital time with Molly, called on Jill, did her shopping in the village, and had just turned to walk up the hill, when Ralph Evans came tramping along behind her, looking so pleased and proud about something that she could not help asking what it was, for they were great friends, and Merry thought that to be an artist was the most glorious career a man could choose.

“I know you’ve got some good news,” she said, looking up at him as he touched his hat and fell into step with her, seeming more contented than before.

“I have, and was just coming up to tell you, for I was sure you would be glad.  It is only a hope, a chance, but it is so splendid I feel as if I must shout and dance, or fly over a fence or two, to let off steam.”

“Do tell me, quick; have you got an order?” asked Merry, full of interest at once, for artistic vicissitudes were very romantic, and she liked to hear about them.

“I may go abroad in the autumn.”

“Oh, how lovely!”

“Isn’t it?  David German is going to spend a year in Rome, to finish a statue, and wants me to go along.  Grandma is willing, as cousin Maria wants her for a long visit, so everything looks promising and I really think I may go.”

“Won’t it cost a great deal?” asked Merry, who, in spite of her little elegancies, had a good deal of her thrifty mother’s common sense.

“Yes; and I’ve got to earn it.  But I can—­I know I can, for I’ve saved some, and I shall work like ten beavers all summer.  I won’t borrow if I can help it, but I know someone who would lend me five hundred if I wanted it;” and Ralph looked as eager and secure as if the earning of twice that sum was a mere trifle when all the longing of his life was put into his daily tasks.