to see things exactly as she did, that is, to stand in her place.
But one good thing came from Fritz’s visit to her. He took up a book which lay, on the little table beside her, and offered to read for a half hour. The half hour lengthened to an hour, and at its end cousin Joan decided that after all there might be a little good in boys,—at least in some—boys, and she almost smiled on Fritz when he laid down the “History of Our Own Times,” after his hour of work. Possibly he would not have read so long, and so willingly, had not the book itself really interested him. He found it surprisingly entertaining “for a history,” as he said to cousin Joan, and privately he resolved to find out if his uncle had n’t a copy at home.
“I wonder if Mrs. Redmond is very busy now,” he said, when he had finished.
“She’s in the studio; you might go and see,” answered cousin Joan; and Fritz excused himself to find Amy’s mother. Though dignified by the name “studio,” the room where Mrs. Redmond worked was a small apartment, and its only really artistic property was its northern window. This was rather large, and in the good light Mrs. Redmond spent many hours working every day. Many of her flower sketches, fastened to colored cartridge paper, were tacked around the wall, and the easel at which she was working, had a thoroughly business-like air.
She welcomed Fritz cordially, and laughed at him a little when, almost without meaning to do so, he disclosed
