Miriam had become mute, and in a minute or two she rose to speak to a lady who was passing.  As she stood there, Mallard regarded her at his case.  She was admirably dressed to-night, and looked younger than of wont.  Losing sight of her, owing to people who came between, Mallard fell into a brown study, an anxious smile on his lips.

On the second morning after that, he interrupted his work to sit down and pen a short letter.  “Dear Mrs. Baske,” he began then pondered, and rose to give a touch to the picture on which his eyes were fixed.  But he seated himself again, and wrote on rapidly.  “Would you do me the kindness to come here to-morrow early in the afternoon?  If you have an engagement, the day after would do.  But please to come, if you can; I wish to see you.”

There was no reply to this.  At the time he had mentioned; Mallard walked about his room in impatience.  Just before three o’clock, his ear caught a footstep outside, and a knock at the door followed.

“Come in!” he shouted.

From behind the canvases appeared Miriam.

“Ah!  How do you do?  This is kind of you.  Are you alone?”

The question was so indifferently asked, that Miriam stood in embarrassment.

“Yes.  I hare come because you asked me.”

“To be sure.—­Can you sew, Mrs. Baske?”

She looked at him in confusion, half indignant.

“Yes, I can sew.”

“I hardly like to ask you, but—­would you mend this for me?  It’s the case in which I keep a large volume of engravings; the seams are coming undone, you see.”

He took up the article in question, which was of glazed cloth, and held it to her.

“Have you a needle and thread?” she asked.

“Oh yes; here’s a complete work-basket.”

He watched her as she drew off her gloves.

“Will you sit here?” He pointed to a chair and a little table.  “I shall go on with my work, if you will let me.  You don’t mind doing this for me?”

“Not at all.”

“Is that chair comfortable?”

“Quite.”

He moved away and seemed to be busy with a picture; it was on an easel so placed that. as he stood before it, he also overlooked Miriam at her needlework.  For a time there was perfect quietness.  Mallard kept glancing at his companion, but she did not once raise her eyes.  At length he spoke.

“I have never had an opportunity of asking you what your new impressions were of Bartles.”

“The place was much the same as I left it,” she answered naturally.

“And the people?  Did you see all your old friends?”

“I saw no one except my sister-in-law and her family.”

“You felt no inclination?”

“None whatever.”

“By-the-bye”—­he seemed to speak half absently, looking closely at his work—­“hadn’t you once some thought of building a large new chapel there?”

“I once had.”