"Ah! is it you? I am so glad you have come. I am full of unrest to-day, and it always does me good to see you in these moods," said Margaret, giving him her hand, and forgetting the trace of clay still clinging to it. "Forgive my working woman's hands," she added, with a blush.
"I have always noticed," answered Rondelet, still holding the small firm fingers in his grasp and examining them curiously, "that women who use their hands have a curious false shame at any trace of their work being detected. Coming upon you at your modelling, how could I expect to find your hands like Mrs. Darius Harden's jewelled fingers, white and cared for, lying idly in your lap?"
"Yours are so white, I almost doubt if they ever work."
Rondelet laughed rather uneasily, and changed the conversation.
"You have not answered my question. Why are you troubled and restless to-day?"
"I do not know; I feel a sort of tumult in my blood,—almost a rebellion against existence. And yet I am well and happy, if it is happiness to be without a grief or a care."
"You live too much among your marbles; they chill you."
"But I am feverish, not chilled. I want to be
