Francine was awakened the next morning by one of the housemaids,bringing up her breakfast on a tray. Astonished at thisconcession to laziness, i n an institution devoted to thepractice of all virtues, she looked round. The bedroom wasdeserted.

"The other young ladies are as busy as bees, miss," the housemaidexplained. "They were up and dressed two hours ago: and thebreakfast has been cleared away long since. It's Miss Emily'sfault. She wouldn't allow them to wake you; she said you could beof no possible use downstairs, and you had better be treated likea visitor. Miss Cecilia was so distressed at your missing yourbreakfast that she spoke to the housekeeper, and I was sent up toyou. Please to excuse it if the tea's cold. This is Grand Day,and we are all topsy-turvy in consequence."

Inquiring what "Grand Day" meant, and why it produced thisextraordinary result in a ladies' school, Francine discoveredthat the first day of the vacation was devoted to thedistribution of prizes, in the presence of parents, guardians andfriends. An Entertainment was added, comprising those mercilesstests of human endurance called Recitations; light refreshmentsand musical performances being distributed at intervals, toencourage the exhausted audience. The local newspaper sent areporter to describe the proceedings, and some of Miss Ladd'syoung ladies enjoyed the intoxicating luxury of seeing theirnames in print.

"It begins at three o'clock," the housemaid went on, "and, whatwith practicing and rehearsing, and ornamenting the schoolroom,there's a hubbub fit to make a person's head spin. Besideswhich," said the girl, lowering her voice, and approaching alittle nearer to Francine, "we have all been taken by surprise.The first thing in the morning Miss Jethro left us, withoutsaying good-by to anybody."

"Who is Miss Jethro?"

"The new teacher, miss. We none of us liked her, and we allsuspect there's something wrong. Miss Ladd and the clergyman hada long talk together yesterday (in private, you know), and theysent for Miss Jethro--which looks bad, doesn't it? Is thereanything more I can do for you, miss? It's a beautiful day afterthe rain. If I was you, I should go and enjoy myself in thegarden."

Having finished her breakfast, Francine decided on profiting bythis sensible suggestion.

The servant who showed her the way to the garden was notfavorably impressed by the new pupil: Francine's temper asserteditself a little too plainly in her face. To a girl possessing ahigh opinion of her own importance it was not very agreeable tofeel herself excluded, as an illiterate stranger, from the oneabsorbing interest of her schoolfellows. "Will the time evercome," she wondered bitterly, "when I shall win a prize, and singand play before all the company? How I should enjoy making thegirls envy me!"

A broad lawn, overshadowed at one end by fine old trees--flowerbeds and shrubberies, and winding paths prettily and invitinglylaid out--made the garden a welcome refuge on that fine summermorning. The novelty of the scene, after her experience in theWest Indies, the delicious breezes cooled by the rain of thenight, exerted their cheering influence even on the sullendisposition of Francine. She smiled, in spite of herself, as shefollowed the pleasant paths, and heard the birds singing theirsummer songs over her head.

Wandering among the trees, which occupied a considerable extentof ground, she passed into an open space beyond, and discoveredan old fish-pond, overgrown by aquatic plants. Driblets of watertrickled from a dilapidated fountain in the middle. On thefurther side of the pond the ground sloped downward toward thesouth, and revealed, over a low paling, a pretty view of avillage and its church, backed by fir woods mounting the heathysides of a range of hills beyond. A fanciful little woodenbuilding, imitating the form of a Swiss cottage, was placed so asto command the prospect. Near it, in the shadow of the building,stood a rustic chair and table--with a color-box on one, and aportfolio on the other. Fluttering over the grass, at the mercyof the capricious breeze, was a neglected sheet of drawing-paper.Francine ran round the pond, and picked up the paper just as itwas on the point of being tilted into the water. It contained asketch in water colors of the village and the woods, and Francinehad looked at the view itself with indifference--the picture ofthe view interested her. Ordinary visitors to Galleries of Art,which admit students, show the same strange perversity. The workof the copyist commands their whole attention; they take nointerest in the original picture.

Looking up from the sketch, Francine was startled. She discovereda man, at the window of the Swiss summer-house, watching her.

"When you have done with that drawing," he said quietly, "pleaselet me have it back again."

He was tall and thin and dark. His finely-shaped intelligentface--hidden, as to the lower part of it, by a curly blackbeard--would have been absolutely handsome, even in the eyes of aschoolgirl, but for the deep furrows that marked it prematurelybetween the eyebrows, and at the sides of the mouth. In the sameway, an underlying mockery impaired the attraction of hisotherwise refined and gentle manner. Among his fellow-creatures,children and dogs were the only critics who appreciated hismerits without discovering the defects which lessened thefavorable appreciation of him by men and women. He dressedneatly, but his morning coat was badly made, and his picturesquefelt hat was too old. In short, there seemed to be no goodquality about him which was not perversely associated with adrawback of some kind. He was one of those harmless and lucklessmen, possessed of excellent qualities, who fail nevertheless toachieve popularity in their social sphere.

Francine handed his sketch to him, through the window; doubtfulwhether the words that he had addressed to her were spoken injest or in earnest.

"I only presumed to touch your drawing," she said, "because itwas in danger."

"What danger?" he inquired.

Francine pointed to the pond. "If I had not been in time to pickit up, it would have been blown into the water."

"Do you think it was worth picking up?"

Putting that question, he looked first at the sketch--then at theview which it represented--then back again at the sketch. Thecorners of his mouth turned upward with a humorous expression ofscorn. "Madam Nature," he said, "I beg your pardon." With thosewords, he composedly tore his work of art into small pieces, andscattered them out of the window.

"What a pity!" said Francine.

He joined her on the ground outside the cottage. "Why is it apity?" he asked.

"Such a nice drawing."

"It isn't a nice drawing."

"You're not very polite, sir."

He looked at her--and sighed as if he pitied so young a woman forhaving a temper so ready to take offense. In his flattestcontradictions he always preserved the character of apolitely-positive man.

"Put it in plain words, miss," he replied. "I have offended thepredominant sense in your nature--your sense of self-esteem. Youdon't like to be told, even indirectly, that you know nothing ofArt. In these days, everybody knows everything--and thinksnothing worth knowing after all. But beware how you presume on anappearance of indifference, which is nothing but conceit indisguise. The ruling passion of civilized humanity is, Conceit.You may try the regard of your dearest friend in any other way,and be forgiven. Ruffle the smooth surface of your friend'sself-esteem--and there will be an acknowledged coolness betweenyou which will last for life. Excuse me for giving you thebenefit of my trumpery experience. This sort of smart talk is_my_ form of conceit. Can I be of use to you in some better way?Are you looking for one of our young ladies?"

Francine began to feel a certain reluctant interest in him whenhe spoke of "our young ladies." She asked if he belonged to theschool.

The corners of his mouth turned up again. "I'm one of themasters," he said. "Are _you_ going to belong to the school,too?"

Francine bent her head, with a gravity and condescension intendedto keep him at his proper distance. Far from being discouraged,he permitted his curiosity to t ake additional liberties. "Areyou to have the misfortune of being one of my pupils?" he asked.

"I don't know who you are."

"You won't be much wiser when you do know. My name is AlbanMorris."

Francine corrected herself. "I mean, I don't know what youteach."

Alban Morris pointed to the fragments of his sketch from Nature."I am a bad artist," he said. "Some bad artists become RoyalAcademicians. Some take to drink. Some get a pension. And some--Iam one of them--find refuge in schools. Drawing is an 'Extra' atthis school. Will you take my advice? Spare your good father'spocket; say you don't want to learn to draw."

He was so gravely in earnest that Francine burst out laughing."You are a strange man," she said.

"Wrong again, miss. I am only an unhappy man."

The furrows in his face deepened, the latent humor died out ofhis eyes. He turned to the summer-house window, and took up apipe and tobacco pouch, left on the ledge.

"I lost my only friend last year," he said. "Since the death ofmy dog, my pipe is the one companion I have left. Naturally I amnot allowed to enjoy the honest fellow's society in the presenceof ladies. They have their own taste in perfumes. Their clothesand their letters reek with the foetid secretion of the muskdeer. The clean vegetable smell of tobacco is unendurable tothem. Allow me to retire--and let me thank you for the troubleyou took to save my drawing."

The tone of indifference in which he expressed his gratitudepiqued Francine. She resented it by drawing her own conclusionfrom what he had said of the ladies and the musk deer. "I waswrong in admiring your drawing," she remarked; "and wrong againin thinking you a strange man. Am I wrong, for the third time, inbelieving that you dislike women?"

"I am sorry to say you are right," Alban Morris answered gravely.

"Is there not even one exception?"

The instant the words passed her lips, she saw that there wassome secretly sensitive feeling in him which she had hurt. Hisblack brows gathered into a frown, his piercing eyes looked ather with angry surprise. It was over in a moment. He raised hisshabby hat, and made her a bow.

"There is a sore place still left in me," he said; "and you haveinnocently hit it. Good-morning."

Before she could speak again, he had turned the corner of thesummer-house, and was lost to view in a shrubbery on the westwardside of the grounds.