The dinner-party at the inn continued to be a merry one.

“I’m sorry it rains,” said Mrs. Bruce, looking at the dewy panes when at last they rose from table. “I wanted you to see how pleasant the outlook is from the verandas.”

The proprietor passed near them as they moved into the spacious living-room of the inn.

“Why couldn’t you have a pleasant evening for us, Mr. Beebe?” asked Mrs. Bruce.

“Sorry I couldn’t,” he returned. “I’m goin’ to make up for it the best I can, though. I’ve got an entertainment for you if you’ll take your friends to that other end o’ the room.”

“Music!” groaned Irving. “I feel in my bones that somebody is going to sing. Us for the porch, Nixie.”

This party had been last to leave the dining-room, and already a large group of guests had gathered in the living-room, and were waiting. Irving was already taking long, quiet strides away from the scene of danger when Robert caught him by the arm.

“Heavens, Brute!” he gasped. “Look there! Is it—or isn’t it!”

Irving turned, and beheld at the other end of the room Rosalie Vincent, dressed in white, standing quietly, looking about her and smiling a little as if in question of her audience, and wondering what she should do for them.

Irving’s heart gave the most acrobatic bound of its existence. He stood fixed in his tracks.

“Do you see who that is, mother?” inquired Robert, leaning over the ladies.

Mrs. Bruce’s busy eyes sought her lorgnette.

Helen Maynard was first to realize who it was that stood there tall and fair in the fleecy white gown, with the golden coronet of her hair shining as her only ornament, and her bare throat and arms, round and slender against a dark background.

“Most extraordinary!” exclaimed Mrs. Nixon. “I never saw such a resemblance.”

She looked over at her brother in a neighboring chair. He was smoothing his mustache; and he nodded at her in reply.

“Why, it is Hebe!” declared Robert, and his voice cracked high. “I never saw anything so lovely in my life.”

“How did it happen?” inquired Mrs. Bruce. She looked at Irving. His face was tense and scowling. “Tell me, Irving,” she demanded in low tones. “How in the world did she get here?”

“How should I know?” he returned; and so irefully that Mrs. Bruce stared at him. Why in the world should it make him angry?

Irving’s heart kept on its quickened pace. So this was what Betsy meant by saying he was likely to see her; why she had adjured him to keep away from her. She had said—Irving’s eyes devoured the white dove; but Rosalie began to speak, and again her voice was music.

“I scarcely know what you would like to hear this rainy evening,” she said, “but I think I will begin by going back to first principles, and telling you the story of Red Riding Hood.”

Mrs. Bruce’s lips would scarcely meet.

“What self-possession!” she murmured; and then for a time all speculation ceased, for the voice of a child began to narrate the classic in the language of a child, and Rosalie carried her audience with her. The little unobserved details of the infantile manner, its occasional abstractions and recalls to the subject, the catching of the breath, and a myriad other peculiarities, were all in evidence, and repeated laughter encouraged the story-teller.

Her big-eyed wonder and horror when she arrived at the thrilling crisis where the wolf devoured Red Riding Hood’s grandmother, “before she even had time to put on her spectacles to see who it was ate her up,” brought down the house; and when the tale drew to a close the clamor of tongues gave witness that Rosalie was a success.

“Isn’t she sweet!”—“Did you ever hear anything so natural!” sped from mouth to mouth. “What a lovely creature she is, and so unaffected!”

And Rosalie stood there looking about, unconsciously smiling, and tingling to her finger-tips with gladness that she had not disappointed Mr. Derwent, whom she could see sitting at the other end of the room.

Mr. Beebe came laughingly to Mrs. Bruce as a Fairport summer oracle.

“Say, ain’t she all right?” he demanded triumphantly.

“Where—” asked Mrs. Bruce, stammering in her eagerness, “how did you happen to get her?”

“’Twas Clever Betsy’s doings. Didn’t she tell you? Seems Miss Vincent wanted a job o’ this kind for the summer, and Betsy thought she’d work me; and I’m mighty glad she did. The girl is onto her job. There, she’s goin’ to give another.”

The speaker hurried off, while Rosalie’s sweet voice began on one of the Riley favorites that bring tears as well as smiles.

Mrs. Bruce did not hear a word. She leaned back in her chair, a prey to conflicting emotions. She saw Mr. Derwent rise and change his position to one in the background of those who were closest to the speaker.

Robert Nixon stooped close to her ear. “You can’t lose the Yellowstone party,” he said, “and aren’t you the proud lady!”

It was an innocent speech on the part of the irresponsible Nixie, but it started the regulating of Mrs. Bruce’s confused thoughts. She realized that he was referring to the perspicacity with which she had recognized Rosalie’s gifts in an unpromising past, and the munificence with which she had cultivated them; so she sat on a fence, as it were, undecided on which side to get down.

She viewed the faces of the absorbed listeners, and considered that she might indeed accept the part of complacent patroness of this young heroine of the evening; might ask no questions, raise no objections, and behave as though this were the natural and expected outcome of her own perception and generosity; but her irritable vanity and love of managing whispered loudly that she had been outwitted.

Who had loosed Rosalie from the engagement in the Park? Who had paid her transportation east? Who had housed her since? Who had procured the dainty gown in which she now stood, and doubtless a trunk-full more if she were to live and entertain in this inn, as Mr. Beebe had plainly stated was the case? He had also plainly stated the answer to these various phases of one conundrum. Betsy it was, of course! For whom else had the clever one deserted her post of duty and gone to Boston to help a friend from the country to buy clothes? Did she really suppose that Mrs. Bruce was too dense to see completely through this millstone?

Yes, it was plain. The savings of a lifetime had been squandered by Betsy Foster, who must be in her dotage to have done such a thing; squandered on this blonde girl with the appealing, darkening eyes, who was this minute swaying her listeners to smiles and tears.

By this time Mrs. Bruce had decided on which side of the fence to get down, and she did so with energy; and glared across it at Rosalie and her poor dupe, the once clever Betsy.

To think of Betsy being such a traitor as not to ask her mistress’s advice, seeing that this was Mrs. Bruce’s affair, and she would be the best judge of what was right to do!

The offended woman glanced again at her son. Rosalie had not driven the unconscious frown from his tense face.

“I’m sure he suspects the same thing,” she reflected. “He is so loyal to Betsy, he will be outraged.”

Helen Maynard was another who heard as little of Rosalie’s recitation as Mrs. Bruce. Her mental questions were the same. Whose magic wand could have accomplished this transformation in the short time?

A cloud had descended on the heiress’s evening. She remembered the questions Irving Bruce had put to her in the Look-Out at Old Faithful Inn. She knew then that he was trying to probe her interest in her unfortunate school friend, and she remembered the hard obstinacy that at that time rose in her heart against Rosalie. Why, before she had had time to find herself in her new situation, should she begin to take care of and plan for another girl? Her first suspicion and her first look when she recognized Rosalie this evening had been directed toward Irving Bruce; but if his amazement were not unfeigned, he was more capable in histrionics than Rosalie herself.

It was a Saturday evening, and the week-end influx of men had given Proprietor Beebe an extra satisfaction in the presentation of a successful novelty on this rainy night.

Irving Bruce watched the faces of the men, some of whom he knew, and others not, and glared upon all alike because of the open admiration in their eyes for his white dove—more and more his, with every comment that he saw being made upon her; with every ring of applause bestowed upon her efforts to please.

He knew what would happen when this was over. Men as well as women would press upon the young girl to thank her, and he knew with what modest gratitude Rosalie would accept their tributes. He could see Mr. Beebe going about on the outskirts of the crowd, proud of her beauty and success, and knew that he would introduce to her anybody who asked it.

Irving drew near to Mrs. Bruce’s chair and stooped over.

“Join her when this is over, will you, Madama? I don’t believe she has any chaperon.”

“No, I thank you,” was the clear response. “I think I never saw any one who required it less.”

Irving bit his lip. “Don’t speak that way,” he begged. “You know they’ll begin dancing after this. Beebe will make it possible for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to dance with her.”

“Which will be very much to her taste, I imagine,” retorted Mrs. Bruce.

Helen Maynard heard the whispered colloquy. She knew that if, at the close of Rosalie’s efforts, she herself should go forward and join the girl, stand beside her, put her on a par with the guests, Irving Bruce would never forget it of her.

She leaned back in her chair, her heart beating a little fast. By nature she loved power. She had begun to taste it to-night. Aware of looking her best, aware of the sunshine; of approval rained upon her by Mrs. Nixon and Mrs. Bruce, and the frank admiration of the young men, there was a still sweeter triumph for her in the expression of Mr. Derwent’s eyes, which roved over her faint rose-color with an amused kindness at first, but lingered with a surprise and admiration which she treasured eagerly. Suddenly all was changed. There was a centre of attraction toward which all eyes gravitated. Mr. Derwent had risen and left their party to go nearer. Irving Bruce believed that Rosalie needed protection from a too violent belle-ship. Should she go across this room, and stand as a sort of maid-of-honor to this white and gold pauper princess?

Nixie leaned over her chair. Again his random words hit the mark and might carry the day.

“By Jove!” he whispered to Helen, “you two girls will look stunning together. You must let me take you over there as soon as Hebe gets through.”

Helen’s lips compressed and she did not reply.

Rosalie was about to give her last recitation. It was a tender sketch, but with plenty of comedy.

A mother was rocking her baby and singing him to sleep, with periodic interruptions from her other children whom she dismissed with varying manner and replies.

It was excellently done. Rosalie’s singing was simple and natural, her voice sympathetic, and when the lullaby finally died away, and she rose and bent her lovely head above the baby as she laid him in an imaginary bed, there were plenty of dim eyes among her auditors.

The absolute stillness broke as the girl rose and smiled again upon her listeners,—the modest, deprecatory smile the Yellowstone party knew so well.

Irving’s eyes shone. “Mrs. Nixon,” said he to that lady, “may I take you over to speak to Miss Vincent? She is in strange surroundings and will appreciate it.”

“Well,” replied Mrs. Nixon with a surprised and regal lift of the head, “the girl certainly does charming work. I’m quite willing to tell her so.”

She rose and took Irving’s offered arm, and they moved away. Mrs. Bruce held her lip between her teeth; her face burned, her eyes filled with tears of anger and mortification.

“Great Scott!” ejaculated Robert, still winking hard, “that girl made my nose tingle. She has one of these silly voices, you know, that go way in and knock on your heart, and if you try to steel yourself, it just opens the door and walks in any way. Come on, let’s all three go over and tell her she’s a dandy. Look at ’em crowd around her! She’s like a drop of honey in fly-time.”

Mrs. Bruce and Helen rose undecidedly.

“Say, look at Uncle Henry!” exclaimed Robert with a joyous squeak. “Isn’t he Johnny-on-the-spot though? Those chaps aren’t going to have it all their own way.”

Mrs. Bruce pressed her handkerchief to her lips, for she too saw Mr. Derwent move a little in advance of the other guests, and after holding Rosalie’s hand a moment in congratulation, draw it within his arm and stand beside her while the kindly, effusive crowd drew near.

Helen Maynard shrugged her shoulders. “That settles it, Mrs. Bruce,” she said. “Mr. Derwent has evidently decided to make her a success. Very nice for her, isn’t it? We may as well go and speak to her, I suppose.”

Mrs. Bruce moved with them in silence. Robert glanced at her with comprehension.

“Darn Brute,” he thought. “Why did he want to go and get mother in wrong here!” To his simple mind it was difficult to grasp the mental processes of his hostess; but he saw her emotion. “I’ll chance a jolly, anyway,” he reflected.

“You must feel like a lady Columbus,” he said to Mrs. Bruce, with an admiring air.

“Oh, no, Nixie,” she rejoined. “I feel like a cipher. Nothing more.”

In his whole life Irving had never slighted her before. For that girl’s sake he had not hesitated to punish her. This was Betsy’s doing,—all her doing.

So the waves of heat and hurt passed over her as she crossed the room on Nixie’s arm, seeing, ahead of her, Irving devotedly talking to Mrs. Nixon as they moved toward the star of the evening.