her in rebellion; a dark little thing with a quivering lip, hair awry, and eyes that flashed through her tears.  She would take any amount of punishment rather than admit she had been in the wrong.  I recall she had once a fox terrier that never left her, that fought all the dogs in the neighbourhood and destroyed the rugs and cushions in the house.  I got rid of it one summer when she was at the sea, and I think she never forgave me.  The first question she asked when she came home was for that dog—­Mischief, his name was—­for Mischief.  I told her what I had done.  It took more courage than I had thought.  She went to her room, locked herself in, and stayed there, and we couldn’t get her to come out for two days; she wouldn’t even eat.

“Perhaps she was jealous of Preston, but she never acknowledged it.  When she was little she used once in a while to come shyly and sit on my lap, and look at me without saying anything.  I hadn’t the slightest notion what was in the child’s mind, and her reserve increased as she grew older.  She seemed to have developed a sort of philosophy of her own even before she went away to school, and to have certain strongly defined tastes.  She liked, for instance, to listen to music, and for that very reason would never learn to play.  We couldn’t make her, as a child.

“Bad music, she said, offended her.  She painted, she was passionately fond of flowers, and her room was always filled with them.  When she came back from school to live with me, she built a studio upstairs.  After the first winter, she didn’t care to go out much.  By so pronounced a character, young men in general were not attracted, but there were a few who fell under a sort of spell.  I can think of no other words strong enough, and I used to watch them when they came here with a curious interest.  I didn’t approve of all of them.  Alison would dismiss them or ignore them or be kind to them as she happened to feel, yet it didn’t seem to make any difference.  One I suspect she was in love with —­a fellow without a cent.

“Then there was Bedloe Hubbell.  I have reason enough to be thankful now that she didn’t care for him.  They’ve made him president, you know, of this idiotic Municipal League, as they call it.  But in those days he hadn’t developed any nonsense, he was making a good start at the bar, and was well off.  His father was Elias Hubbell, who gave the Botanical Garden to the city.  I wanted her to marry Gordon Atterbury.  He hung on longer than any of them—­five or six years; but she wouldn’t hear of it.  That was how the real difference developed between us, although the trouble was deep rooted, for we never really understood each other.  I had set my heart on it, and perhaps I was too dictatorial and insistent.  I don’t know.  I meant the best for her, God knows . . . .  Gordon never got over it.  It dried him up.” . . . .  Irritation was creeping back into the banker’s voice.