a little knot of gentlemen, whom he had evidently been entertaining. He caught Gilbert's eye and nodded jovially; then making some excuse to his guests, he came towards him, and before she knew it, Louise found herself on bowing and speaking terms with a man she had been teaching herself to hate ever since she first heard his name mentioned. She permitted Frances to do all the talking that the five minutes' lateness of the train allowed, becoming acutely conscious, as the glance of millions rested on her, of her blue calico dress and the shabbiness of her belt, which defined an exceptionally pretty figure. Mr. Waring did not see it. Men are not apt to be critical in detail, unless they are finical, or in love, and Marion Waring only knew that he saw a very pretty girl in blue, with a pair of unusual eyes; he could not have told the next moment whether the dress was silk or cotton. Then the train came in sight, puffing, snorting, groaning, as if over-weighted with a sense of its own importance, like some human beings; and then Mr. Waring left them, to see the last of his guests. The girls kissed their brother good-bye for another week, and were left alone at the station, as the empty carriages turned and drove away. Not alone long, though, for soon Mr. Waring joined them and walked up the street with them, signing to his carriage to drive away, since they declined the use of it. At their own little gate, Louise paused for him to say good-bye, but Frances, who was unusually ready and officious, her sister thought, gave him a cordial invitation to en ter. "No, heart disease. She has walked too far and too fast. Oh, I knew it, but she will!” cried Louise. "Where shall I take her for you?" he inquired, lifting Frances as if she had been a child. Louise opened the door of the little. dining-room, and he set his burden on a chair, and stood looking at her in a helpless, sympathizing way, like a big Newfoundland dog. "I know what to do, but so many people about her make her worse. That door opens into the parlor, where you will find mother and father. Won't you please go?" said Louise, lifting her eyes, swimming with tears that the sight of Frances's suffering always brought. The room did seem larger when Mr. Waring closed the door behind him, and the next moment Mrs. Lennard came in softly and swiftly. The paroxysm passed off in a few moments, and then both Frances and her mother implored Louise to go in and tell Mr. Waring that she was better, as he was making apologies for his intrusion in such a manner, declaring that he would only stay until they would let him know if he might be of any assistance. "Do go in, and be more civil to him than you were, Louise," said Frances, with an agitated insistence, accounted for by her condition, "and mother will be in after a little while. He must not spoil his visit on my account, and if he goes before he ought, I shall think it is your fault." Thus adjured, Louise went back to make herself agreeable to the unwelcome guest, who stayed a few minutes longer, and finally departed, begging them to make use of him He accepted, saying in the hearty way he whenever they required his services. generally spoke : "What a delightful man! So different "I hope I shall not miss your father, as I from what I expected! So genial !" ejaculatdid when he called the other evening." "Father is right in here," said Frances, with a kind of urgency that rather surprised Mr. Waring, until she fell against Louise, murmuring, brokenly, "Get me away, quick!' "What is the matter? Faint?" said Mr. Waring, as he supported her by a sudden, strong movement. ed Mrs. Lennard, as the gate clicked. "Did you see what beautiful boots he wore, and what fine cloth his coat was made of, Louise?" "I saw that he had a most malignant taste in neckties," responded that young person, tranquilly. "It's allowable," said Harry, unexpectedly taking part in the conversation. "A man's dress is so very plain and somber, that a bit of bright color in a necktie is not at all out of place, and his was not glaring." "Of course, father always likes everybody," Louise remarked to Rose when they were alone; "but I did not believe that mother would have given way so easily, without even a struggle. And Harry, too! The man has nothing but his money. It is perfectly mortifying that people have so little strength of mind." She did not soften even the next day, when a basket of beautiful hot-house flowers appeared for Frances, with Mr. Waring's card. "It's all so big and showy," said Louise, in an accent of strong objection, though the blossoms were so exquisite that she regretted the words before they were more than out of her mouth. "Well, I don't think I would slander my own taste for the sake of keeping up my character for independence," answered Frances calmly, gloating over her treasure. "The flowers are simply perfect; and you don't know the man well enough to know whether he is ostentatious or not," she concluded. Louise shrugged her shoulders. She seldom argued with Frances, except when she forgot herself. Marion Waring was too unimportant to quarrel about, and his flowers had given Frances too much pleasure. III. ONE evening towards the close of August, Louise was sitting on the wide, vine-covered hotel veranda, watching the face on the mountain sharply outlined against the sunset flush that stained the sky behind it, and faded by imperceptible gradations through orange, faint yellow, and green into the evening blue, pierced here and there by a silver point of light. The purple and gray shadows of the mountains looked full of mystery, and Louise was dreamily happy as she lay back in her big summer chair, unspeakably soothed by the peace and beauty before her. There are some natures, and hers was one, which are almost too high-strung; the keen ness of their sensations amounts to pain, and they suffer from many things that leave no mark on duller souls; but they have their compensation in their sensitiveness to impressions of scenery for certain moods. A fine view was an event to the girl, and a sunset or a cloudless summer sky, seen through quivering green leaves above her, was a consolation for much of the insignificant, yet none the less acute, sufferings of her sordid life. On this occasion she had been invited to dine at the hotel with Mrs. Valentine, a middle-aged lady from the city, who was one of the temporary summer pillars of the church, and had taken a great fancy to her. Mrs. Valentine believed that society and matrimony were the end, and should be the aim, of every girl, and she acted up to her belief. She had been a Washington belle, had married and entertained there, and consoled herself for glory past by being the most indefatigable entertainer in San Francisco. Young girls adored her, and she reciprocated. She generally had at least two visiting her, and her weekly receptions were crowded by all the pleasure-loving of her set. At least ten marriages had been made mainly through her efforts, and she was never happier than when conducting the preliminaries of an engagement. She was fond of San Manuel, and generally spent the summer there, as it was near the city, easily reached by a ferry and a short railway ride, patronized by many of her friends, and last, but not least, healthy for her young grandchildren. Being an ardent churchwoman, she soon came to know the Lennards well, and was struck by Louise's qualifications for a success in society: her beauty, and a certain fluency in conversation that did not conceal a real reserve in the girl, which was piquant and attractive. The only thing she lacked was money, but Mrs. Valentine believed that with proper guardianship the absence of that talisman might be counteracted. "Give me Louise Lennard for one winter, with three dresses, and I could show you a first-rate marriage before Lent," she said one day to her daughter-in-law, a stout, quiet little woman, devoted to her three small boys, and utterly incapable of understanding, much less appreciating, the elder lady's unabated vigor of interest in the social fray. But she had a way of putting a perfectly matter-of-fact question in a manner that sometimes precipitated a crisis. "Why don't you invite her for the winter, then?" she drawled, turning the baby's sock wrong side out. Mrs. Valentine pursed up her mouth, and invited Louise to dinner the next day. This was the first of several invitations; and so it happened that on the evening before mentioned, Louise sat watching the sunset with an absorption that made her forget how Rose and her mother were stitching themselves blind under a lamp on Rose's wedding clothes, and Frances was trying to finish a set of aprons for the children before Saturday, a vision that had haunted her all through dinner, reproaching her for having shirked her share. She even forgot Mrs. Valentine's abrupt question "Well, Louise, now that Rose is safely launched, when are you going to announce your engagement?" that had annoyed her as she came up the steps before the usual loungers on the veranda. Mrs. Valentine's remarks were startling at times, from their extreme personality, not always warranted by the degree of intimacy; but she was so thoroughly good-hearted and kindly in her actions that her free speech and curiosity were condoned. The glow was fading out of the sky, as a pretty open carriage drew up before the hotel, and Mr. Waring's big voice called out: "Who wants a moonlight drive?" "Here's a young lady that's dying for one, and so am I," said Mrs. Valentine, rising with alacrity. Louise blushed with mingled annoyance and pleasure. A drive was an unusual luxury for her, and she enjoyed it as she did everything beyond her reach; but to take her pleasure from Mr. Waring's hands, to be forced upon him against her will and without his recognition-for she was sure he did not know her again until Mrs. Valentine mentioned her name-irritated her into silence. "Mrs. Valentine never goes anywhere without me, Mr. Waring," spoke out a gay voice from a dark corner. "Is that you, Miss Lily? In with you all, then. The moon will be just right." Lily Swift was at present the reigning social success. She had come from the East accredited as a great flirt, and no entertainment, small or large, was considered complete without her. She had troops of men friends, was obliged to divide her dances at parties, and was charming to women when there were no men present; but one shrewd youth expressed the suspicions of many, when he declared to Mrs. Valentine, Jr., who did not like Lily, that general admiration, while flattering to her vanity, was not the only thing she aspired to, and a man with money was the object of her western campaign. "She is clever, but they are wary," continued the young man, who knew his subject well, "and she's got to make hay while the sun shines, for her looks will go to pieces before many years are over." "She doesn't look to me as if she would fade," remarked the lady, who wished to be strictly just. "No, she isn't the fading kind," he answered, "but her face will spread away, and her features will get coarse." Mrs. Valentine was not specially fond of Lily. In spite of her popularity and affec tionate manners, there was something coldhearted and calculating about her that caused women to speak of her vaguely as "insincere," and that precluded any friendship with her in the real sense of the word; but since she was the momentary sensation, the elder lady made a great pet of her, and knew that her presence insured that of most of the young men about town. To Louise she was absolutely hateful, because she simply ignored the poor child's existence. A country girl who had never been to a ball, whose father was unknown, who dressed so plainly as to be conspicuous, who had only a villager's bowing acquaintance quently. Mr. Waring had given Louise credit for shyness, which she did not possess, and having allowed time enough, as he supposed, for her to become used to the situation, he suddenly asked her if she would like to drive, as if she were a child to be coaxed out of a fright. with the hotel and cottage people, naturally if he could not respond to them very frehad nothing to commend her to Miss Swift's memory. Though she had been introduced several times, Lily always met her with the same affable smile, and "Happy to meet you, Miss Lennard," that she accorded to all strangers, and at other times she passed her by with utter forgetfulness. The last time this had happened, Louise had related the whole matter to Frances with tears of rage. "I'll make her remember me, though, some day," she cried, with the impotent threat of a sore and angry girl. "I'll never know her again, anyway." Frances joined in abuse until her sister was calmer, and the vague vengeance lay in abeyance. Naturally, Louise was not reconciled to the drive by this addition to the party, but she stood silently in the background, feeling awkward and out of place, as she always did in Lily's presence. Kind little Mrs. Valentine, Jr., who had gone for wraps, now came back and cloaked her mother and Louise, while Lily made a good deal of laughter by the way she and Mr. Waring managed to put on her shawl; then Mrs. Valentine settled herself in the carriage, and Lily made a move towards the front seat, but before she knew what he was doing, Mr. Waring had placed her beside Mrs. Valentine, and swung up Louise to the seat she had meant for herself. He was not a man of much penetration where were concerned, but he was thoroughly independent, and he knew that Miss Swift had all the pleasure she wanted, while he had talked over the Lennards' privations several times already with Mrs. Valentine, and when he found Louise that evening, he determined that she should enjoy herself as much as he could make her. women She was very quiet at first, while the occupants of the back seat leaned forward, talking and laughing, and occasionally winning a word from Mr. Waring, who kept a sharp eye on his horses. Lily was determined to have what attention he had to bestow, in spite of the disadvantage of her position, and kept him laughing at her sallies, "Oh, yes!" she cried eagerly. "But am I strong enough? I'm afraid I don't know how." "They are gentle, and I will help you," he answered good-naturedly, and the reins were transferred to her hands. Gentle as the horses were, they gave an occasional pull that drew her to her feet, but never loosened her hold. Excitement raised her spirits, and for the half hour or so that she felt the strong, living wills under her power and guidance, she forgot everything in the world except that she was happy. Lily Swift did not exist for her; Marion Waring, favored by the darkness, was only the beneficent means of giving her one of the pleasantest sensations of her life. When he gave her the reins, he turned round, and devoted himself to keeping up a brisk fire of conversation with Mrs. Valentine and Lily, who was "taking her innings"; but Louise was conscious that he watched both her and the horses carefully, as his occasional directions to her about them and the road proved. At last he took the reins from her, saying: "Do you enjoy it?" Oh, I should think I did! Oh, thank you !" she answered, with such a deep-drawn sigh of delight as pleased him to the bottom of his kind heart. "You shall have them again presently," he said, "but you can't drive and talk too, I see, and I want you to talk to me. How is your little sister, the one I saw the other day? "Quite well. She always is the next day. That wasn't a very bad attack, either. I have known her to roll on the floor with the pain. We never can tell when she will have one. She ought to keep quiet, and not get excited or overtire herself, but, of course, that is impossible in a house like ours." The next moment she could have bitten her tongue out for that last unlucky phrase. It seemed as if she were ashamed of her poverty, and appealing to his pity or challenging his contempt. She knew rich people put their liking on a money basis. But Marion Waring had not been a rich man's son; he remembered his mother and sister, and respected the little creature who took her share of the household tasks at the risk of her life. Quite ignorant of her hostile mental attitude towards him, on account of the very thing that made him admired and sought by the rest of the world, he continued to question her about her old home at the East, her father, and his prospect of remaining with his present church; then he spoke of Gilbert in a way that thawed her reserve, and at last she herself questioned him as to what he thought of Harry's chances with the advertisements, from none of which he had yet heard. The impression she made on him was peculiar. He saw her pride and her ignorance of the world's ways, her own and her family's hard struggle with adverse circumstances, and a certain coldness yet naturalness of manner that pleased him, from its contrast with the efforts that other young women made visibly to attract his attention. The unspoiled girl of twenty had a charm for him that Lily Swift, with all the dexterity gained by long practice on many different specimens of the genus homo, had so far failed to exert. Yet the world, taking its usual privilege of coupling names, had already selected. Lily Swift for the future Mrs. Waring. It was thought very convincing of the proof of the rumor, that he should have bought his country place the same year that Miss Swift and her mother spent the summer in San Manuel; whereas the fact was that Mr. Waring had never been farther from matrimony in his life than that evening when, after setting down Louise at home, he said good-night to Mrs. Valentine and Lily at the hotel, and drove to his own newly-acquired domicile. VOL. VII.-3. "I shouldn't wonder if Lily got him in the end, Hattie," said Mrs. Valentine to her son's wife, as they indulged in their usual discussion of matters for the night. "She's a woman of the world; she speaks two or three languages; and she is very pretty now, whatever she may be five years from now, as Phil Carter suggests." "Well, I never could see any particular beauty about her," said Mrs. Valentine, Jr. "Red hair and green eyes. I know she calls one golden and the other gray; but that doesn't make them so. She goes out too much, besides. She is getting baggy under the eyes." "She would make just the wife for Marion Waring," the elder lady pursued, continuing her meditations undisturbed by this protest "I wonder if that couldn't be brought about this month? I believe I—” "Mother!" implored Mrs. Hattie, "do for pity's sake leave things alone. The man is old enough to know what he wants, and to ask for it, too. It's Lily Swift that wants him, not he that wants Lily-I can see that; and I like him too much to think of any plan to give him such a fate. Now let him alone, won't you?" "It would be just the thing," repeated Mrs. Valentine, undeterred. In her own mind she was persuaded that the marriage would come about in a short time, but she could not reconcile herself to the idea that it should take place without her intervention; an event which would set all San Francisco talking, like Marion Waring's marriage, must have her name connected with it. It was several days before she saw him again. When she did meet him, he was coming out of church, like herself. He was evidently a little nervous, and anxious to avoid some one; for when she spoke to him he joined her eagerly, and walked with her to the hotel, where he seemed more at ease, and seated himself beside her on the veranda for a long talk. They had been great friends for several years, and she had taken him to task not a few times already about his matrimonial prospects; but he always laughed it off in one way or another, his fa |