“You need not excuse yourself on my account,” her father had said to her.

“But I shall,” was her prompt response.  “After all you have done and are doing for me, it’s a pity if I can’t give you one evening in the week.  You are looking after other people in New York; I’m going to look after you; and you shall find that I am a sharp inquisitor.  You must reveal enough of the secrets of that mysterious office of yours to satisfy me that you are not in danger.”

He soon began to look forward with glad anticipation to his ramble by her side in the summer twilight.  He saw that what he had done and what he had thought during the week interested her deeply, and to a girl of her intelligence he had plenty to tell that was far from commonplace.  She saw the great drama of her country’s history unfolding, and not only witnessed the events that were presented to the world, but was taken behind the scenes and shown many of the strange and secret causes that were producing them.  Moreover expectation of something larger and greater was constantly raised.  After their walk they would return to the house, and she would sing or read to him until she saw his eyes heavy with the sleep that steals gradually and refreshingly into a weary man’s brain.

Mrs. Vosburgh observed this new companionship with but little surprise and no jealousy.  “It was time,” she said, “that Marian should begin to do something for her father, and not leave everything to me.”

One thing puzzled Marian:  weeks were passing and she neither saw nor heard anything of Lane or Strahan.  This fact, in view of what had been said at parting, troubled her.  She was not on calling terms with the latter’s family, and therefore was unable to learn anything from them.  Even his male friends in the neighborhood did not know where he was or what he was doing.  Her father had taken the pains to inform himself that Lane was apparently at work in his law-office as usual.  These two incipient subjects of the power she hoped to wield seemed to have dropped her utterly, and she was discouraged.

On the last day of June she was taking a ramble in a somewhat wild and secluded place not far from her home, and thinking rather disconsolately that her father had overrated her influence,—­that after all she was but a pretty and ordinary girl, like millions of others,—­a fact that Lane and Strahan had at last discovered.  Suddenly she came upon the artist, sketching at a short distance from her.  As she turned to retreat a twig snapped under her foot, revealing her presence.  He immediately arose and exclaimed, “Miss Vosburgh, is it I that you fear, or a glimpse of my picture?”

“Neither, of course.  I feared I might dispel an inspired mood.  Why should I intrude, when you have nature before you and the muse looking over your shoulder?”

“Over my left shoulder, then, with a mocking smile.  You are mistaken if you fancy you can harm any of my moods.  Won’t you stay and criticise my picture for me?”