BOUT a week after this transaction Rayburn Miller went to Atlanta on business for one of his clients, and while there he incidentally called at the offices of the Southern Land and Timber Company, hoping to meet Wilson and learn something about his immediate plans in regard to the new railroad. But he was informed that the president of the company had just gone to New York, and would not be back for a week.

Rayburn was waiting in the rotunda of the Kimball House for his train, which left at ten o' clock, when he ran across his friend, Captain Ralph Burton, of the Gate City Guards, a local military company.

“Glad to see you,” said the young officer. “Did you run up for the ball?”

“What ball is that?” asked Miller. “I am at the first of it.”

“Oh, we are giving one here in this house tonight,” answered Burton, who was a handsome man of thirty-five, tall and erect, and appeared at his best in his close-fitting evening-suit and light overcoat. “Come up-stairs and I 'll introduce you to a lot of strangers.”

“Can't,” Rayburn told him. “I've got to leave at ten o' clock.”

“Well, you've got a good hour yet,” insisted the officer. “Come up on the next floor, where the orchestra is, anyway, and we can sit down and watch the crowd come in.”

Miller complied, and they found seats on the spacious floor overlooking the thronged office. From where they sat they could look through several large drawing-rooms into the ballroom beyond. Already a considerable number of people had assembled, and many couples were walking about, even quite near to the two young men.

“By George!” suddenly exclaimed Miller, as a couple passed them, “who is that stunning-looking blonde; she walks like a queen.”

“Where?” asked Burton, looking in the wrong direction.

“Why, there, with Charlie Penrose.”

“Oh, that one,” said Burton, trying to think, “I know as well as I know anything, but her name has slipped my memory. Why, she's visiting the Bishops on Peachtree Street—a Miss Bishop, that's it.”

“Adele, little Adele? Impossible!” cried Rayburn, “and I've been thinking of her as a child all these years.”

“So you know her?” said Captain Burton.

“Her brother is a chum of mine,” explained Miller. “I haven't seen her since she went to Virginia to school, five years ago. I never would have recognized her in the world. My Lord! she's simply regal.”

“I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her,” said the Captain; “but I've heard lots about her from the boys who go to Bishop's. They say she's remarkably clever—recites, you know, and takes off the plantation negro to perfection. She's a great favorite with Major Middleton, who doesn't often take to the frying size. She has been a big drawing card out at Bishop's ever since she came. The boys say the house overflows every evening. Are you going to speak to her?”

“If I get a good chance,” said Rayburn, his eyes on the couple as they disappeared in the ballroom. “I don't like to go in looking like this, but she'd want to hear from home.”

“Oh, I see,” said Burton. “Well, you'd better try it before the grand march sweeps everything before it.”

As Miller entered the ballroom, Penrose was giving Adele a seat behind a cluster of palms, near the grand piano, around which the German orchestra was grouped. He went straight to her.

“You won't remember me, Miss Adele,” he said, with a smile, “but I'm going to risk speaking to you, anyway.”

She looked up from the bunch of flowers in her lap, and, in a startled, eager sort of way, began to study his face.

“No, I do not,” she said, flushing a little, and yet smiling agreeably.

“Well, I call that a good joke,” Penrose broke in, with a laugh, as he greeted Miller with a familiar slap on the shoulder. “Why, Rayburn, on my word, she hasn't talked of anybody else for the last week, and here she—”

“You are not Rayburn Miller!” Adele exclaimed, and she stood up to give him her hand. “Yes, I have been talking of you, and it seems to me I have a thousand things to say, and oh, so many thanks!”

There was something in this impulsive greeting that gave Miller a delectable thrill all over.

“You were such a little thing the last time I saw you,” he said, almost tenderly. “I declare, you have changed—so, so remarkably.”

She nodded to Penrose, who was excusing himself, and then she said to Miller, “Are you going to dance to-night?”

He explained that he was obliged to take the train which left in a few minutes.

He saw her face actually fall with disappointment. The very genuineness of the expression pleased him inexplicably. “Then I must hurry,” she said. “Would you mind talking to me a little while?”

“Nothing could possibly please me so much,” said he. “Suppose we stroll around?”

She took his arm and he led her back to the rotunda overlooking the office.

“So you are Rayburn Miller!” she said, looking at him wonderingly. “Do you know, I have pictured you in my mind many times since mother wrote me all about how you rescued us from ruin. Oh, Mr. Miller, I could not in a thousand years tell you how my heart filled with gratitude to you. My mother goes into the smallest details in her letters, and she described your every word and action during that transaction in your office. I could tell just where her eyes filled and her throat choked up by her quivering handwriting. I declare, I looked on you as a sort of king with unlimited power. If I were a man I'd rather use my brain to help suffering people than to be made President of the United States and be a mere figure-head. You must not think I am spoiled by all this glitter and parade down here. The truth is, I heartily despise it. I wanted to be at home so bad when I got that letter that I cried myself to sleep.”

“You must not forget that your brother conceived the plan,” Miller protested, “and that I only—”

“Oh yes; I know Alan thought of it,” she interrupted, “but without your experience and firmness it would have remained in his dear old brain till the Lord knows when. The idea of their being in debt was slowly killing my father and mother, and you came to their relief just when they were unable to bear it any longer. I'm so glad you thought of borrowing that money.”

Just then a young man, half a head shorter than Adele, came up hurriedly. “Oh, here you are,” he exclaimed, in a gasp of relief. “I've been looking for you everywhere. This is mine, you know—the grand march. They are all ready.”

Adele smiled pleasantly. “I hope you 'll excuse me from it, Mr. Tedcastle,” she said. “I've just met a friend from home; I want to talk with him, and—”

“But, Miss Bishop, I—”

“I asked you to please excuse me, Mr. Tedcastle.” Miller saw her face harden, as if from the sneer of contempt that passed over it. “I hope it will not be necessary for me to explain my reasons in detail until I have a little more time at my disposal.”

“Oh, certainly not, Miss Bishop,” said the young man, red with anger, as he bowed himself away.

“What's society coming to?” Adele asked Miller, with a nervous little laugh. “Does a lady have to get down on her knees and beg men, little jumping-jacks, like that one, to excuse her, and pet them into a good-humor when she has good reason to change her mind about an engagement? That's a sort of slavery I don't intend to enter.”

“You served him right,” said Miller, who had himself resented the young man's childish impetuosity, and felt like slapping him for his impertinence.

Adele shrugged her fine shoulders. “Let's not waste any more time talking about him,” she said. “I was going to tell you how happy you made them all. When I read mother's description of their return home that night—how she went round looking at each object and touching it, that she might realize it was hers again; and how father sat up till past midnight talking incessantly about it; and all the droll things Uncle Abner said, I cried and laughed by turns. I longed to see you, to tell you how I felt about what you did, and yet, now that I'm with you, all I say seems utterly weak and—inadequate.”

“It seems wonderfully nice to me,” Miller declared. “I don't deserve anything, and yet—well, I like to hear you talk.” He laughed. “Whether I deserve it or not, I could listen to you for a week on a stretch.”

In truth, Rayburn Miller had never in all his varied social career become so suddenly and startlingly interested in any woman. It all seemed like a dream, and a most delicious one—the gay assemblage, the intermittent strains of the music, the touch of the stately creature on his arm, the perfume of her flowers, her hair, her eyes! He suddenly felt fearful of the passage of time, the leaving of his train, the approach of some one to claim her attention. He could not explain the spell she had thrown on him. Was it because she was his friend's sister, and so astoundingly pretty, frank, and sensible, or could it be that—?

His train of thought was broken by the approach of Miss Ida Bishop, Adele's cousin, a rather plain girl, who, with her scrawny neck and scant hair—which rebelled against being made much of—would have appeared to better advantage in a street costume.

“Oh, Adele,” she cried, reproachfully, “what do you mean? Do you know you have mortally offended Mr. Tedcastle? He had the march with you.”

“And I asked him as a favor to excuse me from it,” said Adele, simply. “I had just met Mr. Miller, who is to leave on an early train, and I wanted to talk to him about home. Have you been introduced? My cousin, Miss Bishop, Mr. Rayburn Miller.”

Miss Bishop bowed indifferently, and looked as if she still saw no justification in the slight under question.

“I'm awfully sorry,” she said, reprovingly. “Mr. Tedcastle has been as nice to you as he could be, and this is the way you show appreciation for it. I don't blame him for being mad, do you, Mr. Miller?”

“I'm afraid I'd be a prejudiced witness,” he smiled, “benefiting as I am by the gentleman' s discomfiture; but, really, I can' t think that any circumstances could justify a man in pressing a lady to fill an engagement when she chooses not to do so for any reason of hers.”

“I knew you'd say that,” said Adele. “If anybody has a right to be offended it is I, for the way he has acted without waiting for my full explanation.”

“Oh, that is a high and mighty course that will do better for novels than real life,” disagreed Miss Ida Bishop. “The young men are badly spoiled here, and if we want attention we've got to humor them.”

“They shall not be spoiled by me,” declared Adele. “Why,” shrugging her shoulders, contemptuously, “if I had to run after them and bind up their bruises every time they fell down, I'd not appreciate their attentions. Besides, Mr. Tedcastle and his whole ilk actually put me to sleep. What do they talk about? Driving, pet dogs, flowers, candies, theatre-parties, and silly bosh, generally. Last Sunday Senator Hare dined at uncle's, and after dinner he and I were having really a wholesome sort of talk, and I was respecting myself—well, a little like I am now—when in traped 'Teddy' with his hangers-on. Of course, I had to introduce them to the Senator, and I felt like a fool, for he knew they were my 'company,' and it was impossible to keep them quiet. They went on with their baby talk, just as if Senator Hare were being given an intellectual treat. Of course, there are some grown-up men in Atlanta, but they are driven to the clubs by the swarms of little fellows. There comes Major Middleton, one of the old rÉgime. He may ask me to dance with him. Now watch; if he does, I 'll answer him just as I did Mr. Tedcastle, and you shall see how differently he will treat it.”

The Major, a handsome man of powerful physique and a great shock of curly, iron-gray hair, approached Adele, and with a low bow held out his hand.

“I'm after the next dance, my dear,” he said. “You are one of the very few who ever dance with me, and I don't want to go home without it.”

Adele smiled. “I'm very sorry, Major,” she said; “but I hope you 'll excuse me this evening.”

“Oh, that's all right, my dear child,” he said. “No, don't explain. I know your reasons are all right. Go ahead and enjoy yourself in your own way.”

“I won my bet,” Adele laughed. “Major, I knew so well what you would say that I bet on it,” and then she explained the situation.

“Tedcastle ought to be spanked,” said the Major, in his high-keyed voice. “A girl who had not rather hear from home than spin around with him ought not to have a home. I'm going to mine rather early tonight. I came only to show the boys how to make my famous Kentucky punch.”

When the Major and Miss Ida Bishop had gone and left them together, Adele looked over the railing at the big clock in the office. “We have only a few minutes longer—if you are to take that train,” she said, regretfully.

“I never had as little interest in trains in my life,” he said. And he meant it.

“Not in the trains on our new road?” she laughed.

“They are too far ahead to interfere with my comfort,” he retorted. “This one is a steam nightmare.”

“I presume you really could not miss it?” Her long-lashed eyes were down.

He hesitated; the simple thought suggested by her thrilled him as he had never been thrilled before.

“Because,” she added, “it would be so nice to have you come out to-morrow afternoon to tea, about four.”

He drew out his watch and looked at it waveringly.

“I could send a night message,” he said, finally. “I really don't want to go. Miss Adele, I don't want to go at all.”

“I don't want you to either,” she said, softly. “It seems almost as if we are quite old friends. Isn't that strange?”

He restored his watch to his pocket. “I shall stay,” he said, “and I shall call to-morrow afternoon.”

Some one came for her a few minutes later, and he went down to the office and out into the street. He wanted to walk, to feel his body in action, keeping pace with his throbbing, bounding brain. His whole being was aflame with a fire which had never burned in him before.

“Alan' s little sister!” he kept repeating to himself. “Little Adele—she's wonderful, wonderful! Perhaps she may be the woman. By George! she is—she is! A creature like that, with that soul full of appreciation for a man' s best efforts, would lift a fellow to the highest rung on the ladder of human effort. Alan's little sister! And the idiot never told me, never intimated that she was—a goddess.”

In his room at the hotel that night he slept little, his brain being so active with his new experience. He saw her the next afternoon alone, over a dainty tea-service of fragile china, in a Turkish corner in William Bishop's great, quiet, house, and then proposed driving her the next day to the Driving Club. He remained a week, seeing her, under some pretext or other, every day during that time. Sometimes it was to call with her on friends of hers. Once it was to attend a barbecue given by Captain Burton at a club-house in the country, and once he gave her and her cousin a luncheon at the Capitol City Club with a box at the matinÉe afterwards. He told himself that he had never lived before, and that, somehow, he was just beginning.

“No,” he mused, as he sat in his train homeward bound. “I can't tell Alan. I simply couldn't do it, after all the rubbish I have crammed into him. Then she's his sister. I couldn't talk to him about her—not now, anyway.”