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 She could hardly wait to go home and test her new knowledge. In the meanwhile—in the brief two weeks and a little more that remained. . . . Was her name like the wind in the pines? What was his name like? 'Roger Dallinger, Roger Dallinger?' She spoke it twice out loud. Funny how familiar the name always sounded, never failing to give her that tantalizing feeling of a particular time and place in her past, evading capture. To-night, as she repeated it, the vision of dazzling snow and sunshine flashed before her, and afterward, freakishly, Felix in the schoolroom sunk down under his desk, and herself beside him, covered with chalk-dust, feeling so sorry.

There had been a letter from Felix to-night. He wrote to her faithfully every few days. Slow, labored notes. There wasn't much to write about. But his letter to-night had contained a startling piece of information. He had sold his chef-d'œuvre! He spelled it 'shay durve.' All these years, then, he had never known what it meant. Poor Felix! He had sold the doll-house for two hundred dollars! To a woman in Chicago, who had taken a fancy to it. And he was working hard on a duplicate order for a friend of hers. How happy Felix would be! The sale of a single piece of his furniture would set him to work for days afterward, with renewed energy, inspired by some deep-buried dream of success. And now an order, an actual demand for his wares! His