"You were not quite-not as you are tonight."

"Not quite so offensive as I am to-night?" "You are making fun of me!" she said, with a grieved upward look.

"I could not possibly make fun of you! But what can I say? You would not listen a moment to the things I want to say!"

She had been nervously fingering the cluster of aspen leaves at her waist, and now one floated from its broken stem softly to the floor. He stooped for it, and held it as if it were a mutual confidence.

"I wish you would forget that morning," she said. "Make believe it did not happen!" "If you choose to forget it—especially my part of it-I must not complain. But I'm afraid I cannot spare it, unless you will promise me other mornings or evenings - better ones to make up for it."

He was unconsciously proving a new range of looks and tones which had been silent, heretofore, in the valiant procession of his years. It was the opening of the vox humana in his soul. The young girl listened to the "prelude soft"; she sighed, moving her head. back restlessly, and with one hand crushing the limp plaitings of lace closer around her throat.

"There will be no more mornings or evenings," she said. "Everything I do here seems to be a mistake. This evening has been the worst mistake of all."

"I know what you mean. We are none of us living our real lives. But there might be perfect things, here-perfect rides and walks and talks-if one were not always alone, or worse than alone."

Mrs. Denny came toward them, between two gentlemen, laughing and shivering in a white cloak. Hilgard felt that the hovering joy of the moment had vanished. His account for the evening was closed, with the memory of her last words clouding his spirit. "What neighbors" they were, indeed!

"Didn't you hear the stage drive up, Cecil ? Your brother is in at last. He says I may take you home with me to-night, and he will sleep at the hotel. He is completely done uphasn't even strength enough left to wonder how you got on without him to-night."

"Where is he?" Miss Conrath asked. "Can't I go to him?"

"He is in bed by this time, my dear. He could scarcely stand on his feet."

“Is he ill ?" the girl inquired, anxiously. "Of course he isn't ill!" Mrs. Denny smiled meaningly at Hilgard behind the young girl's back, and made a little wavering gesture back and forth with her small, wise forefinger. "Can't you imagine what twenty hours in that coach must be ?" she added.

"I don't need to imagine- I know!" Cecil

said.

"Well then! you cannot wonder he is fit for nothing but his bed!"

At the ladies' entrance- -a recent addition to the Colonnade which could not be regarded as a triumph of privacy-Mr. Denny met them, and silently offered his arm to Miss Conrath, as if he had come for that purpose alone. He had spent the evening in a semidetached state of attendance on his wife, varied by brief distractions of his own. Mrs. Denny gave him a quick, hard glance, when he first presented himself, perhaps to ascertain the nature of these distractions from their effects, but without altering her vivacity of

R. W. G.

truth itself. At first Agnes spoke of the time when they had been girls together, making their entrée into society, with others as young and untried as themselves-Bertha the happiest and brightest of them all.

"She was always a success," she said. "She had that quality. One don't know how to analyze it. People remembered her and were attracted, and she never made them angry or envious. Men who had been in love with her remained her friends. It was because she was so true to them. She was always a true friend."

She remembered so many incidents of those early days, and in her relation of them Bertha appeared again and again the same graceful, touching young presence, always generous and impetuous, ready of wit, bright of spirit, and tender of heart.

"We all loved her," said Agnes. "She was worth loving; and she is not changed." "Not changed," said Tredennis, involuntarily.

"Did you think her so?" she asked gently.

"Sometimes," he answered, looking down. "I am not sure that I know her very well."

But he knew that he took comfort with him when he went away, and that he was full of heartfelt gratitude to the woman who had defended him against himself. When he sat among his books that night his mind was calmer than it had been for many a day, and he felt his loneliness less. What wonder that he went to the house again and again, and oftener to spend a quiet hour than when others were there. When his burdens weighed most heavily upon him, and his skies looked darkest, Agnes Sylvestre rarely failed to give him help. When he noted her thoughtfulness for others, he did not know what method there was in her thoughtfulness for himself, and with what skillful tact and delicate care she chose the words in which she spoke to him of Bertha; he only felt that, after she had talked to him, the shadow which was his companion was less a shadow, and more a fair truth to be believed in and to draw faith and courage from.

The Professor, who met him once or twice during his informal calls, spoke of the fact to Arbuthnot with evident pleasure.

"He was at his best," he said, "and I have noticed that it is always so when he is there. The truth is, it would be impossible to resist the influence of that beautiful young woman."

His acquaintance with Mr. Arbuthnot had taken upon itself something of the character of an intimacy. They saw each other almost daily. The Professor had indeed made many

discoveries concerning the younger man, but none which caused him to like him less. He had got over his first inclination toward surprise at finding they had many things in common, having early composed himself to meet with calmness any source of momentary wonder which might present itself, deciding at length that he himself was either younger or his new acquaintance older than he had imagined, without making the matter an affair of years. The two fell into a comfortable habit of discussing the problems of the day, and, though their methods were entirely dif ferent, and Arbuthnot was, at the outset, much given to a light treatment of argument, they always understood each other in the end, and were drawn a trifle nearer by the debate. It was actually discovered that Laurence had gone so far as to initiate the unwary Professor into the evil practice of smoking, having gradually seduced him by the insidious temptings of the most delicate cigars. The discussions, it was observed, were always more enjoyable when the Professor, having his easy-chair placed in exactly the right position. with regard to light and fire, found himself with his cigar in hand, carefully smoking it and making the most of its aroma. His tranquil enjoyment of and respect for the rite were agreeable things to see.

"It soothes me," he would say to Arbuthnot. "It even inspires and elevates me. I feel as if I had discovered a new sense. I am really quite grateful."

It was Arbuthnot who generally arranged his easy-chair, showing a remarkable instinct in the matter of knowing exactly what was necessary to comfort. Among his discoveries concerning him the Professor counted this one that he had in such things the silent quickness of perception and deft-handedness of a woman, and perhaps it had at first surprised him more than all else.

It may have been for some private reason of his own that the Professor occasionally gave to the conversation a lighter tone, even giving a friendly and discursive attention to social topics, and showing an interest in the doings of pleasure-lovers and the butterfly of fashion. At such times Arbuthnot noticed that, beginning with a reception at the British Embassy, they not unfrequently ended with Bertha; or, opening with the last dinner at the White House, closed with Richard and the weekly "evenings" adorned by the presence of Senator Planefield and his colleague. So it was perfectly natural that they should not neglect Mrs. Sylvestre, to whom the Professor had taken a great fancy, and whose progress he watched with much interest. He frequently spoke of her to Arbuth

not, dwelling upon the charm which made her what she was, and analyzing it and its influence upon others. It appeared to have specially impressed itself upon him on the occasion of his seeing Tredennis, and, having said that it would be impossible to resist this "beautiful young woman,”—as he had fallen into the unconscious habit of calling herhe went on to discourse further.

"She is too tranquil to make any apparent effort," he said. "And yet the coldest and most reserved person must be warmed and moved by her. You have seen that-though you are neither the most reserved nor the coldest."

Arbuthnot was smoking the most perfectly flavored of cigars, and giving a good deal of delicate attention to it. At this he took it from his mouth, looked at the end, and removed the ash with a touch of his finger, in doing which he naturally kept his eyes upon the cigar and not upon the Professor.

"Yes," he said, "I have recognized it, of course."

"You see her rather often, I think?" said the Professor.

66

"I am happy to be permitted that privilege," was the answer; though I am aware I am indebted for it far more to Mrs. Amory than to my own fascinations-numberless and powerful though they may be."

"It is a privilege," said the Professor, "but it is more of one to Philip than to you-even more of one than he knows. He needs what such a woman might give him.”

"Does he?" said Arbuthnot. " Might I ask what that is?"

And he was angry with himself because he did not say it with more ease and less of a sense of unreasonable irritation. The Professor seemed to forget his cigar, he held it in the hand which rested on his chair-arm, and neglected it while he gave himself up to thought.

"He has changed very much during the past year," he said. "In the last few months I have noticed it specially. I miss something from his manner, and he looks fagged and worn. It has struck me that he rather needs an interest, and feels his loneliness without being conscious that he does so. After all, it is only natural. A man who leads an isolated life inevitably reaches a period when his isolation wearies him, and he broods over it a little."

"And you think," said Arbuthnot, "that Mrs. Sylvestre might supply the interest ? " "Don't you think so yourself?" suggested the Professor, mildly.

"Oh," said Laurence, "I think the man would be hard to please who did not find she

could supply him with anything and everything."

And he laughed and made a few rings of smoke, watching them float upward toward the ceiling.

"He would have a great deal to bring her," said the Professor, speaking for the moment rather as if to himself than to any audience. "And she would have a great deal in return for what she could bestow. He has always been what he is to-day, and only such a man is worthy of her. No man who had trifled with himself and his past could offer what is due to her."

"That is true," said Laurence.

He made more rings of smoke and blew them away.

"As for Tredennis," he said with a deliberateness he felt necessary to his outward composure, "his advantage is that he does not exactly belong to the nineteenth century. He has no place in parlors; when he enters one without the least pretension or consciousness of himself, he towers over the rest of us with a gigantic modesty it is useless to endeavor to bear up against. He ought to wear a red cross, and carry a battle-ax, and go on a crusade, or right the wrongs of the weak by unhorsing the oppressor in single combat. He might found a Round Table. His crush hat should be a helmet, and he should appear in armor."

The Professor smiled.

"That is a very nice figure," he said, "though you don't treat it respectfully. It pleases my fancy."

Arbuthnot laughed again, not the gayest laugh possible.

"It is he who is a nice figure," he returned. "And though he little suspects it, he is the one most admired of women. He could win anything he wanted and would deserve all he won. Oh, I'm respectful enough. I'm obliged to be. There's the rub!"

"Is it a rub?" asked the Professor, a little disturbed by an illogical tancy which at the moment presented itself without a shadow of warning.

"You don't want the kind of thing he might care for."

This time Laurence's laugh had recovered its usual delightful tone. He got up and went to the mantel for a match to light a new cigar.

"I!" he said. "I want nothing but the assurance that I shall be permitted to retain my position in the Treasury until I don't need it. It is a modest ambition, isn't it? and yet I am afraid it will be thwarted. And then-in the next administration, perhaps—

I shall be seedy and out at elbows, and Mrs. Amory wont like to invite me to her Thursday evenings, because she will know it will make me uncomfortable, and thenthen I shall disappear."

"Something has disturbed you," commented the Professor, rather seriously. "You are talking nonsense."

And as he said it, the thought occurred to him that he had heard more of that kind of nonsense than usual of late, and that the fact was likely to be of some significance. "It is the old story," he thought, "and it is beginning to wear upon him until he does not control himself quite so completely as he did at first. That is natural too. Perhaps Bertha herself has been a little cruel to him in her woman's way. She has not been bearing it so well either."

"My dear Professor," said Laurence, "everything is relative, and what you call nonsense I regard as my most successful conversational efforts. I could not wield Excalibur. Don't expect it of me, I beg you."

If he had made an effort to evade any further discussion of Mrs. Sylvestre and the possibilities of her future, he had not failed in it. They talked of her no more-in. fact, they talked very little at all. A shade had fallen upon the Professor's face and did not pass away. He lighted his cigar again, but scarcely seemed to enjoy finishing it. If Arbuthnot had been in as alert a mental condition as usual, his attention would have been attracted by the anxious thoughtfulness of his old friend's manner; but he himself was preoccupied and rather glad of the opportunity to be silent. When the cigars were finished and he was on the point of taking his departure, the Professor seemed to rouse himself as if from a reverie.

"That modest ambition of yours began slowly.

" he

"Thank you for thinking of it," said Arbuthnot, as he paused.

"It interests me," replied the Professor, "You are continually finding something to interest me. There is no reason why it should be thwarted, you know."

"I wish I did," returned Laurence. "But I don't, you see. They are shaky pieces of architecture, those Government buildings. The foundation-stones are changed too often to insure a sense of security to the occupants. No; my trouble is that I don't know." "You have a great many friends," said the Professor.

"I have a sufficient number of invitations to make myself generally useful," said Laurence, "and of course they imply an appreciation of my social gifts which gratifies me;

but a great deal depends on a man's wardrobe. I might as well be without talents as minus a dress-coat. It interests me sometimes to recognize a brother in the ' 'song and dance artist' who is open to engagements. I, my dear Professor, am the song and dance artist.' When I am agile and in good voice, I am recalled; but they would not want me if I were hoarse and out of spirits, and had no spangles."

66

"You might get something better than you have," said the Professor, reflectively. ought to get something better."

To whom shall I apply?" said Laurence. "Do you think the President would receive me to-morrow? Perhaps he has already mentioned his anxiety to see me." Then, his manner changing, he added, with some hurry: "You are very good, but I think it is no use. The mistake was in letting myself drift as I did. It would not have happened if—if I hadn't been a fool. It was my own fault. Thank you! Don't think of me. It wouldn't pay me to do it myself, and you may be sure it would not pay you."

And he shook the Professor's hand and left him.

He was not in the best of humors when he reached the street, and was obliged to acknowledge that of late the experience had not been as rare a one as discretion should have made it. His equable enjoyment of his irresponsible existence had not held its own entirely this winter. It had been disturbed by irrational moods and touches of irritability. He had broken, in spite of himself, the strict rules he had laid down against introspection and retrospection; he had found himself deviating in the direction of shadowy regrets and discontents. And this in the face of the fact that no previous season had presented to him greater opportunities for enjoyment than this one. Certainly he counted as the most enviable of his privileges those bestowed upon him by the inmates of the new establishment in Lafayette Place. His intimacy with the Amorys had placed him upon a more familiar footing than he could have hoped to attain under ordinary circumstances, and, this much gained, his social gifts and appreciation of the favor shown him did the rest.

"Your Mr. Arbuthnot," remarked Mrs. Merriam, after having conversed with him once or twice," or, I suppose, I ought rather to say little Mrs. Amory's Mr. Arbuthnot, is a wonderfully suitable person.'

"Suitable?" repeated Agnes. "For what?" "For anything-for everything. He would never be out of place, and his civility is absolute genius."