sudden breaking of the winter into the splendor of the Southern spring.
She was sitting in her studio late one afternoon, talking with Sara Harden, who had come to see the bas-relief for the last time, when a card was brought to Miss Ruysdale. Her visitor saw the flush that spread over her face as Margaret read the name and asked that the caller should be shown into the studio.
"As I was saying when I was interrupted," Mrs. Harden went on, "I think your bas-relief a great success, barring the figure of the Milanion, which I never did like. The huntsmen, the group of girls, the dogs in the leash, are most natural. The Atalanta I like best, of course, because it is your little graceful self,—though why you ever put yourself in such a character I can't imagine. You now could never be won by such a ruse,—rousing your curiosity or cupidity by throwing a golden apple in your path. Fancy it!"
"Oh, but it means so much more than that," said Margaret. "Atalanta really wanted to be won, you know, only she was ashamed to say so, after all,—all her protestations to the contrary; and Milanion had seen that in her face."
"What liberties you take with the myths, my dear! Don't judge the Arcadian Atalanta by yourself, I beg of you. And yet, I don't know—
