t I'm not money loving. And I couldn't deceive him. He smiled queerly, but he must have thought time his ally, for he only said:—

"Money can buy you nothing; you might leave gewgaws to other women. But you are less mercenary than you think yourself; and you will always know that I love you; let it rest with that, for now."

So he went away the second time, leaving me with my hands clenched and my teeth set—so fierce had been my fight to seem composed. As I sank breathless into a chair, and my tense fingers relaxed, out from my right hand rolled the little opal ring. I hadn't returned it, after all; had been gripping it all the time, unknowing. At sight of it, I burst into hysterical laughter.

And that madly merry laughter is the end. I should go crazy if I yielded to love that I can't return, and I should despise him if he accepted. A husband not too impassioned, a fair bargain—beauty bartered for position, power, for a name in history—that is all there is left to me, now that love has vanished.

The farm! I couldn't go back, to isolation and dull routine! I told John I might go abroad. Why not? I might see the great capitals, and in the splendour of palaces find a fitting frame for my beauty. There may be salve for heartache in the smile of princes. At any rate, the seas would flow between me and Ned Hynes.

I had forgotten my ambitions. I'd have said to Ned: "Whither thou goest I will go;" but if what he feels for me is not love—if in his heart he hates me for the witchery I've put upon him—

I could go abroad with a title, if I chose. If love lies not my way, there is Strathay.

How listless I am, turning from my sorrow to write of what to most girls would be a delight—of that pathetic little figure, toadied and flattered, but keeping a good heart through it all; of his marked attentions, which I permit because they keep other men away; of his efforts to see me—for the Van Dams' position isn't what I imagined it, and we are not invited to many houses where I could meet him; of Meg's rejoicings over a few of the cards we do receive.

Oh, I win her triumphs, triumphs in plenty! Because the Earl admires me, hasn't she once sat at the same table with Mrs. Sloane Schuyler, who refuses to meet intimately more than a hundred New York women; and hasn't she twice or thrice talked "autos" with Mrs. Fredericks; and isn't she envied by all the women of her own set because the Earl and his cousin shine refulgent from her box at the Opera?

Triumphs, certainly; doesn't Mrs. Henry wrangle with Meg over my poor body, demanding that I sit in her box, and that I join Peggy's Badminton club, and bring the Earl, who would bring the youths and maidens who would bring the prestige that would, some day, make a Newport cottage socially feasible?

That's her dream, Meg's is Mayfair; she thinks of nothing but how to invest me in London and claim her profit when I am Strathay's Countess, or mistress of some other little great man's hall. Oh, I understand them; Mrs. Henry's the worst; oily!

I wonder if London is less petty than New York; if I should be out of the tug and scramble there. But I mustn't judge New York, viewing it through the Van Dams' eyes. If I did, I should see a curious pyramid.

At the top, a sole and unapproachable figure, the twelfth Earl of Strathay, just out of school;

Next a society, two-thirds of whose daughters will marry abroad, and to all of whose members an Earl's lack of a wife is a burning issue;

Hanging by their skirts a thousand others, like the General and Mrs. Henry, available for big functions, pushing to get into the little ones;

Hanging by these in turn, ten thousand others outside the pale, but flinging money right and left in charity or prodigality to catch the eyes of those who catch the eyes of those who nod to Earls;

And after them nobody!

And the problem: "How high can we climb?"

Why, there are twenty thousand families in New York rich enough to be Elect, if wealth were all. I could almost marry Strathay to save him from the ugly millioned girls! How they hate me!

I know what love is like, now; Strathay means to speak. If Ned would only—but three weeks—three long, long weeks, and he doesn't—oh, I won't believe that, deep in his heart he does not love me. It's not time—not time, yet, to think about the little Earl!

At any rate I won't be flung at his head; last night I taught Meg a lesson she'll remember. She meant to bring him home to supper after the Opera, where, in spite of my first experience, we're constant now in attendance; but, to her surprise, then dismay, then almost abject remonstrance, I prepared to go out before dinner to inspect the new studio Kitty and Cadge have taken.

"Be back in good season?" she pleaded. "How could you make an engagement for the night when Strathay.—Not wait for you! Why Helen, you can't—what would Strathay think if I allowed you to arrive alone at the Opera?"

"Then can't you and Peggy entertain him?"

"Peggy?" She looked at me with blank incredulity. "You wouldn't stay away when Strathay—why, Helen, you didn't mean that. Drive straight to the Metropolitan when you leave your—those people, if you don't wish to come back for me. Where do they live?" she groaned despairingly.

"Top of a business block in West Fourteenth Street."

I thought she would have refused me the carriage for such a trip, but she didn't venture quite so far as that; and the hour I spent with the girls was a blessed breathing spell.

"What a barn!" I cried, when I had climbed more stairs than I could count to the big loft where I found them. "Girls, how came you here?"

"Behold the prodigal daughter! Shall we kill the fatted rarebit?" And Kitty threw herself upon me; while Cadge, waving her arms proudly at the Navajo rugs, stuffed heads of animals and vast canvasses of Indian braves and ponies that made the weird place more weird, replied to my query:—

"Borrowed it of an artist who's wintering in Mexico; cheap; just as it stands."

Then they installed me under a queer tepee, and we had one of the old time picked-up suppers, and for an hour my troubles were pushed into the background. The girls are in such frightful taste that I really should drop them, but they're loyal and so proud of me!

"Princess," said Cadge, "time you were letting contracts for the building of fresh worlds to shine in. You're the most famous person in this, with all the women thirsting for your gore; and you've a real live Lord for a 'follower.'"

"That's nothing."

Cadge thinks me still betrothed to John, so she affected to misunderstand.

"Nearly nothing, for a fact," she said; "it isn't ornamental, but we seldom see specimens and mustn't judge hastily. And it is a Lord.—See the hand-out he gave me for last Sunday—full-page interview: 'Earl of Strathay Discusses American Society?'

"Some English won't stand for anything but a regular pie-faced story, but Strathay's a real good little man."

"You said he had sixty-nine pairs of shoes," said Kitty reminiscently.

"No; twenty-nine."

"What's His Lordlets doing in New York?" inquired Pros., who was there as usual, a queer and quiet wooer.

"Tinting the town a chaste and delicate pink, assisted and chaperoned by his cousin, the Hon. Stephen Allardyce Poultney. Ugh! Glad the Star doesn't want an interview with His Geniality; don't like S.A.P. Esq.," said Cadge energetically. "But, Helen, now you've got people where you want 'em, you play your own hand. You don't want any Van Dam for a bear leader. That crowd's been working every fetch there is to get in with the top notchers, and they just couldn't. Knowing you is worth more to them than endowing a hospital. You're a social bonanza."

Perhaps I shouldn't have let her talk so about Meg, but, after all, she told me nothing new.

"Did I send you a marked paper with the paragraph I wrote about the important 'ological experiments you couldn't leave, even for the 'land of the lily and the rose?'" she proceeded. "Don't wonder you didn't want to go to Bermuda, everything coming so fast your way. I crammed your science into the story because it's good advertising. Don't really study at Barnard now, do you? I wouldn't; would you, Kitty?"

Her white, mobile face gleaming with animation, Cadge declaimed upon one of her thousand hobbies:—

"What's women's science good for but dribbling essays to women's clubs? If some 'Chairwoman of Progress' were to grab off the Princess, does it take science to give 'em 'Fresh Evidence that Woman was Evolved from a Higher Order of Quadrumanous Ape than Man?' We all know what the clubs want, and if they get it, they'd vote any one of us as bright a light as Haeckel.—Pros., you saved any clippings for the Princess?"

Pros. gave me a quantity of articles about my beauty cut from out-of-town and foreign papers. I believe I'll subscribe to a clippings bureau. I hadn't thought of that.

I stayed and stayed; it was so pleasant in the eyrie; but when at last I rose to go, Kitty sighed:—

"Why, you've only been here a minute, and in that gorgeous dress, you're like a real Princess, not my chum. I shall suggest a court circular—'The Princess Helen drove out yesterday attended by Gen. Van Dam.'—'Her Serene Highness, Princess Helen, honoured the Misses Reid and Bryant last evening at a soiree.'—leaded brevier every morning on the editorial page. Oh, Nelly, can't I have your left-off looks? A homely girl starves on bread and water, while a pretty one wallows in jam."

"Princess must be wallowing in wealth," said Cadge, inspecting my evening dress; "suspect she didn't dress for us; it's Opera night. Stockholders share receipts with you? Beauty show in that first tier box must sell tickets."

"Wish they would divide; I'm as poor as a church mouse," I said, laughing.

I didn't go to the Opera, though the girls had cheered me up until I hurried home prepared to do Meg's bidding; but she had gone—angry, I suppose—and I didn't follow.

I gained nothing; the Opera gives me my best chance to see and be seen. I might as well have had my hour of triumph, the men in the box, the jealous glances of the women. I might as well have scanned with feverish expectation the big audience that turns to me more eagerly than to the singers, searching—oh, I'm mad to think that Ned might come there again to look upon me.

I didn't even escape the Earl. Meg and her husband came home early, bringing him and Poultney; we had the supper, and, for my sins, I made myself so agreeable that Meg forgave me, almost.

It was easy; I just let the poor boy talk to me about his mother and sisters, and watched his face light up as he spoke of them in a simple, hearty way that American boys don't often command. He is really very nice. One of his sisters is a beauty.

"But not like you," he said.

He's as boyishly honest as if he were sixteen; and as modest. To be Countess of Strathay would be a—

Of course Mrs. Henry and Peggy were here, smiling on Mr. Poultney, Strathay's cousin. Oh, I'm useful! I believe Mrs. Marmaduke is the only Van Dam who's kind to me without a motive; they're not Knickerbockers at all, as I supposed.

Cadge is right; I gain nothing socially by remaining with Meg; and her guesses come too close to my heart's sorrow. She watches and worries, forever concerned lest some "folly" on my part interfere with her ambitions. Why, I'm frantic at times with imagining that even the maid she lends me—an English "person"—reports upon my every change of mood.

Oh, I ought to be independent, independent in all ways. With a little money I could manage it.

There's a Mrs. Whitney, a widowed aunt of Meg's husband, who lives alone in an apartment where a paying guest, if that guest were I, might be received. Meg would raise an outcry, of course, but I can't keep on visiting her indefinitely; and I should still be partly in her hands.

But I have no money. My allowance is the merest nothing, spent before it comes. Why, I owe Meg's dressmaker, for the dress Cadge admired and for others—Mrs. Edgar was cheaper; I must go back to her. And in the Nicaragua, where Mrs. Whitney lives, the cost of—but it wouldn't be for long.

If Ned doesn't—

I won't think about Strathay. I must wait. It's my fault that I haven't plenty of money. I've been so unhappy that I haven't explained to Father how my needs have increased, how my way of life has changed. But I'll write to-night; he refuses me nothing. He must send me a good sum at once; as much as he can raise.

Mrs. Whitney's a harmless tabby—a thin, ex-handsome creature struggling to maintain appearances; but I can put up with her. I will go to the Nicaragua. I'll go at once.

CHAPTER III.

THE SUDDENNESS OF DEATH.

The Nicaragua, March 29.

How could I have known that he would die?

I had never seen any one die. It was as if life were a precious wine rushing from an overturned glass that I could not put right again. I did not dream a man could be so fragile.

For weeks I have not added a word to this record. But now I have looked upon death, and I must write. There is no one to confide in but this little book, stained by so many tears, confident of so many sorrows, so many disappointments.

Prof. Darmstetter is dead.

Dead, but not by my fault. I was not the thousandth part to blame. Yet I tremble like a leaf to think of it. I shall get no sleep to-night and to-morrow look like a fright to pay for it—no! I can never do that now, thank God! Thank God for that!

Yes, I'm glad; when I try to be calm, I am glad he's dead—no, not that—sorry he's dead, of course, but glad that my rights are safe—when I am calm.

But I can't be calm; it was too horrible!

It happened yesterday in the laboratory; we were alone together. I have seldom been to the laboratory of late, but I had begun to suspect that the Professor was planning treachery, preparing to try the Bacillus upon other women. He had been so impatient because I had not gone often enough, that he might make his records, his comparisons, his tests—I don't know what flummery. All at once he ceased his importunities; some instinct taught me that he was about to seek a more tractable subject. I was resolved that if he did contemplate such injustice, I should put a stop to it. And I went to watch him.

Was that wrong? Why, he had promised me that I should have pioneer's rights in the realm of beauty. Sole possession was to be my reward? I had the right to hold him to his promise. But I didn't think—

Yesterday I spoke to Prof. Darmstetter. That was how it came about. He had looked disconcerted at my appearance in the laboratory, and my suspicions had suddenly grown to certainty. I said to him:—

"I wish to see you alone."

A guilty look came to his face. I was watching him as he had watched me before the great change, and when he started at my words I knew he was thinking of playing me false; his conscience must have warned him that I had read his thoughts. But he knew that my strength was greater than his and he bowed assent.

When the other girls had gone—some of them with frightened looks at me, as if mine were the devil's beauty they tell about—and when Prof. Darmstetter was ready to begin his own work, I faced him with a challenge:—

"Prof. Darmstetter, you are about to break your word."

"You are mistaken," he said; but he could not face my look.

"I am not mistaken; you are planning to try the Bacillus upon other women, and you promised that I should be first."

"And so you are! I dit not promise t'at you should be t'e only beautiful voman all your life, or ten years, or von year. You haf t'e honour of being first. It is all, and it is enough. You shall be famous by t'at. I am an old man and must sometime brint my discofery for t'e goot of t'e vorld; but first I must make experiments; I must try the Bacillus vit' a blonde voman, vit' a brunette voman, vit' a negro voman—it vill be fine to share t'e secrets of Gott and see v'at He meant to make of t'e negro."

If his enthusiasm had not run counter to my rights, I might have admired it.

"I must try it vit' a cripple," he went on, "vit' an idiot, vit' a deaf and dumb voman. I must set it difficult tasks, learn its limitations. T'en I must publish."

"You shall do nothing of the kind. You are not a very old man and I am young. I have your secret safe, and it shall not be lost to the world even if you die. I shall see that your name is coupled with the Bacillus as that of its discoverer. Do you think I care to rob you of your honours? I value them little, compared with the beauty you have given me. Think what you promised me! That I should be first! And I have had the perfect beauty only a few days and already you are planning to make it cheap and common. This injustice I will oppose with all my might, but I will be fair with you."

"Fair vit' me!" he shouted. "Vat do you mean? T'at I shall die unknown, vit' t'e greatest discofery of all time in my hands? You call t'at fair? It is not fair to me, because I haf hungered for fame as you for beauty. But t'at is not'ing; t'at is for me only, and I am not'ing. It is not fair to t'e vorld to vit'hold t'is precious gift one hour longer t'an is necessary to experiment, to try, to make sure. To keep t'is possession all to yourself vould you deny it to millions of your sisters?"

"Yes, I would; and so would they, in my place," I cried. "I care as much for my beauty as you for your fame. And I hold you to your promise. I was to be first, and I shall be first. I haven't yet begun to live. You have barely finished your experiments, and now you're planning my ruin. I will not be balked."

"I vill not be balked by such selfishness," screamed Prof. Darmstetter, his parchment face livid with rage; "I vill be master of my own vork."

My beauty! My hold on life and power and success and love! My only hope of Ned, if he loves me—and God knows whether he does or no! See such beauty multiplied by the thousand, the million? Never!

I forced myself to be calm. My anger left me in a moment. I knew how useless it was, and I remembered that he himself had armed me for my protection. I smiled and held out both my hands to him, and I could see him falter as he looked.

"Look at me!" I said. My voice was a marvel even to myself, so rich and full and musical! "Look at me! Of what use was it to make me beautiful if you are now to make me unhappy? Ah, I beg of you, I implore you, don't be just, but be kind! Let me have my own way and see—oh, see how I shall thank you!"

His face changed as I moved toward him with a coaxing smile, and dropped my hands on his shoulders. The tempest of his wrath subsided as suddenly as it had risen, and he stood short-sightedly, his head thrust forward, peering into my eyes, helpless, panting, disarmed.

"You will not—ah, you will not!" I whispered.

"Ach, Du!" he murmured. "Du bist mein Frankenstein! Ich kann nicht—ich—ich habe alles verloren, verloren! Ehre, Ruhm, Pflicht, Redlichkeit, den guten Namen! Verloren! Verloren!"

A touch of colour that I had never seen there before grew slowly in his cheeks. It was the danger signal; but I did not know; indeed I did not know!

"Come," I said, shaking him lightly, playfully; "promise me that you will not do it for a year."

"Delilah!" he whispered from behind set lips, his breath coming quicker, a hoarse rattling in his throat.

Then he snatched my hand and began pressing kisses upon it—greedily, like a man abandoning himself to a sudden impulse.

But the next moment, before I could move, he threw back his head and tottered to a chair, where he sat for an instant, breathing heavily. Just as I sprang toward him his frame stiffened and straightened and he slipped from the chair and fell heavily to the floor, where he lay limp, unbreathing, sprawled upon the bare boards in all the pitiful ugliness of death.

I was terribly frightened.

For a moment wild thoughts raced through my brain—foolish impulses of flight lest I be found with the body and somehow be held responsible. Then, with scorn for my folly, I ran out into the hall, crying for help.

The janitor rushed in, and seeing what had happened, went for the nearest physician, who came at once and knelt by the fallen man's side. But before he closed the staring eyes, rose from his examination of the prostrate figure and slowly shook his head, we both knew that Prof. Darmstetter was dead.

"His heart—." he began, turning for the first time toward me, whom as yet he had not noticed; and then he started back and stood open-mouthed, transfixed, staring at me—at my beauty.

In that sweet instant, call it wicked or not, I was glad that Darmstetter was dead! I could not help it. So long as he lived, I was not safe.

I did not blame him for planning to experiment with others, any more than I would have blamed a cat that scratches or a snake that stings. I will be just. His love of learning overbore his honour. He could not have kept faith. I should never have been safe with him in the same world. Yet am I sorry for him. I owe him much.

In the Doctor's wondering gaze at me over the body of my beauty's creator I felt anew the sense of power that has inspired me by night and day since my great awakening.

I have had bitter experiences of late; this has been the worst, yet in a way the most fortunate. By no fault of mine I am relieved of the danger of seeing beauty like—like this too common.

And I will be fair to the dead man, though he was not fair to me: if there is a God above, by Him I swear that I will write out the secret of the Bacillus this day, so that it shall not be lost if I too die suddenly, as he—

I will devise it to humanity, and John Burke shall execute the will. Poor fellow! Poor John!

I can't see that I was wrong. I did not know, Prof. Darmstetter himself probably did not know, that he was liable to such an attack. Even if I had known—I had the right to defend myself, hadn't I? It was not like the Nelly Winship I once knew to use such weapons against him; but that Nelly is as dead as he, and this glorious vision of white and rosy tint and undulant form shall be rival-less for years; marvel of every land, the theme of every tongue.

I sit alone in this huge palace in which I have come to live—feeling that at last I have a home of my own, where no one can overlook my thoughts—I sit alone and think of the future; and it is rosy bright, if only I could forget—if only I could forget!

In all the world I am the sole guardian of the Secret. I shall be the most beautiful woman for years and years and years; blessed with such beauty that men shall know the tale of it is a lie, until they, too, come from far countries to look upon it; and they shall go home and be known as liars in their turn, and always dream of me. When I am old and gray, I will tell the world how Darmstetter died, on the eve of publishing his discovery. Perhaps I shall cling to it until I, too—

Ah, I can see that ghastly Thing, the dead, hideous eyes staring up at me! Shall I be like that some day? As ugly as that!

It was not my fault, dead, staring eyes; not my fault!

CHAPTER IV.

SOME REMARKS ABOUT CATS.

The Nicaragua, April 27.

I've been sitting for my portrait to Van Nostrand. It is an offering to the shades of Prof. Darmstetter. I must preserve some attempted record of my beauty for his sake; though the Bacillus couldn't have made, if he had lived, another woman as beautiful as I. It isn't conceivable.

I believe I'm a little tired with that, and with rearranging Mrs. Whitney's flat, and a little worried, too, about bills, the money from Father comes so slowly. Not that I need mind owing a trifle at the shops; half the women run accounts; but it's embarrassing not to have ready money. Why, I have to buy things to ward off gifts; Meg simply won't see me go without.

Perhaps I'm depressed too, because to-day has been a succession of petty squabbles, and I hate squabbling.

This morning came Aunt Frank. I knew she had returned from Bermuda, so I wasn't surprised to see her dumpy figure appear in Mrs. Whitney's parlour, followed by Uncle Timothy's broad back and towering head. I did with zest the honours of the apartment. It was sweet revenge to see Mrs. Baker's nervous discomfort at meeting me, and to watch her stealing furtive glances at my beautiful home.

"Well, Nelly, dear," she said, "you look very cosey, but we expected that, after your visit to Mrs. Van Dam, you would go to Marcia until our return."

"Oh, I couldn't think of troubling either of you," I said sweetly; "I have friends to whom it is a real pleasure to advise me."

That shot told.

"You don't know what anxiety you've caused, leaving us for—for strangers, that way," she retorted, bridling; "but since you would go, I'm glad everything's turned out so—been having your portrait painted? Why, it's a—it is a Van Nostrand!"—She had spied the painting.—"It's like you, rather; but—doesn't he charge a fortune?"

Then she rattled on, about the rooms, about Bermuda lilies and donkey carts, trying now and again to pry into my plans and urging me, not too warmly, to return to her, until she had reached the limits of a call of courtesy. I think it was with real relief that she rose as she received my final refusal. Uncle, who had sat silent in kind, or blind, perplexity, was unfeignedly glad to go.

"Run in often, won't you?" she said, at parting. "I hear—but perhaps I shouldn't speak of that. Is—is Lord Strathay like his pictures?"

Fussy! She'd gladly wash her hands of me, yet thinks she has a duty. But I was glad, for once, to see her. It's not for nothing that I have run society's gauntlet; I can aim confetti with the best of them; innocent-looking but they hurt.

Scarcely had they gone when in rushed the General and my prim duenna, Mrs. Whitney; they'd been waiting until the coast was clear. It was with something like a scream that the two flew at me, crying in one voice:—

"Have you really refused to be one of Peggy's bridesmaids? Why didn't you consult me?"

Peggy despairs of Mr. Poultney; she's going to marry some person in Standard Oil, and her wedding will be a function.

"Yes," I said, ignoring the latter question.

"But why—why—" Mrs. Whitney squeaked and panted, and her breath failed.

"Because—was it because Ann Fredericks was asked too?" Meg demanded.

"Yes, if you must know."

"But what has Ann done?" said Meg. She planted herself in front of me, her hard, handsome eyes blazing with impatience. "She's as homely as the Sunset Cox statue and as uncivil to you as she dares; but she's only a cousin of the Frederickses, you mustn't mind her. What has Ann done, Helen?"

"She weighs two hundred and they call her 'Baby'! She's a fat slug on a currant bush! I won't talk about her."

I dashed into my room but Meg's staccato reached me even there.

"Just like Helen! Imagine Mrs. Henry's state of mind."

"And Ann's," said Mrs. Whitney.

"Oh, Ann's in mortal terror. But how can Helen expect pasty girls like Ann Fredericks—out last fall and already touching up—to forgive her beauty? Trouble is, every girl who comes near Helen knows she makes her look like a caricature."

Meg paced the floor a minute, then slapped herself into a chair.

"Oh, I've seen the women scowl at her," said Mrs. Whitney.

"Scowl?" said Meg. "Why, I've seen a woman actually put out her foot for Helen to trip over. Old women are the worst, I do believe; some of the young ones admire her. What do you think old Mrs. Terry said—Hughy Bellmer's aunt—at the last of her frightful luncheon concerts, where you eat two hours in a jungle of palms and orchids, and groan to music two hours more in indigestion. 'A lovely girl, my dear Mrs. Van Dam,' she said; 'a privilege to know her. Pity that so many of our best people fight shy of a protÉgÉe of the newspapers.' That from Mrs. Terry, with her hair and her hats—"

"And her divorce record," added Mrs. Whitney.

"She fears for her nephew; as if Helen would look at him! But the newspapers have hurt Helen. I wish she'd announce her engagement; she has the cards in her hands, but she's got to play 'em; and poor Strathay's so devoted!—Why didn't you shade the lights Tuesday at your dinner? In that glare we were all worse frights beside her than usual."

"I hate murky rooms!" I cried, breaking out upon them, for I couldn't stand it any longer. "It's your 'rose of yesterday' who insists on twilight and shaded candles. I enjoy electricity!"

Meg gazed at me in despair.

"Helen, are you really bent on making enemies?" she asked. "What did Ann Fredericks do?"

I couldn't have answered; it would have been no answer to say that she angers me with a supercilious stare; but the trouble of replying was spared me, for Mrs. Henry appeared that minute in the doorway, greeting me in her nervous puffy voice:—

"How well you look!" she said. "Such a treat to get a peep at you! Peggy really must try your dressmaker—but she's so disappointed! You must let me beg of you—just like an own daughter and Peggy couldn't think more of a sister! You will reconsider—"

Something in the way she thrust forward her head reminded me of how her tiara slipped and hitched about, on the night of her dance, and how Ned and I giggled when it had to be repinned.

"I'm afraid Peggy should have consulted me earlier," I said with a spite born of the recollection.

It would have been more than mortal not to take offense at that. Mrs. Henry's face grew red, and after a few perfunctory words she and Meg left, and Mrs. Whitney went out with them.

As Mrs. Henry backed into the hall, she almost collided with Kitty, who had just come up.

"Talking wedding?" that tease asked, following me back into the parlour and pirouetting before a mirror. "Chastening experience for once in a way to see mysel' as ithers see me. Big wedding, won't it be? Florist told Cadge he was forcing a churchful of peach and apple blossoms. You're a bridesmaid, ain't you? That was Mrs. Henry? Know I've seen her here. Looks apoplectic; and there's too much musk in her violet."

"That was Mrs. Henry, but I'm not on Peggy's list. How are the beastesses' noses and toeses?"

"Ambulance rung for." Kitty darted to another looking glass. "Regular hall of mirrors, ain't it? Helen, why are photo-engravers—but say, I've seen a list of bridesmaids; Ann Fredericks was one, cousin of the Frederickses; great for Helen, we all said—Pros. and Cadge and—"

"Has the list been printed?"

Kitty looked puzzled.

"What are you cross about?" she said finally. "I don't wonder you get tired of such doings, tugging a ton of bouquet down a church aisle, organ grinding Lohengrin. If ever I marry, I sha'n't ask you to stand up with me; I propose to be the central figure at my own wedding; Cadge can do as she chooses."

"Why, Kitty! Cadge and—why, Pros., of course."

"In June. Came to tell you."

For a moment Kitty's eyes danced, then the mist followed the sunlight, and the poor little creature buried her head in my lap, sobbing.

"Oh, what'll I do," she cried, "when Cadge takes away my brother and my brother takes away Cadge, and you—they say you're going off with that Englisher to be a Countess—not that I ever see anything of you now."

"Oh, hush, child; don't you know you're talking nonsense?"

Kitty took me at my word.

"Earl's lady is a Countess, ain't she?" she asked, her voice still shaky. Then she sat suddenly upright and put back her red curls from her brow, winking vigourously. "Oh, if you do live in a castle, put in bathtubs and gas; and if you go to court, please, Princess, hide a kodak under your bouquet for me and—"

Crying and laughing by turns and tossing back her flaming locks, she started for the door.

"Helen," she said, turning as she reached it, "I have such bad symptoms! Am I really the only girl that's jealous of you?"

"The only one that isn't jealous, you—you dear!" I exclaimed; and I believe it's almost true!

Kitty paused in the hall, playing with the roses in a bowl upon the table.

"We hear something of how the dowagers adore you. But let 'em wag their double chins; you'll scat the old cats from their cushions!" she said.

At the impetuous outflinging of her hands, the floor was strewn with pink petals.

"Cats?" repeated Mrs. Whitney, who just then made her appearance, "are they a hobby with Miss Reid?"

"I'd drown 'em," cried Kitty, vanishing, "nine times!"

Oh, I'm weary of these bickerings; so womanish! Every creature whose rival I could possibly become is my enemy. I don't blame them. What chance have they while I am present? Women who agree about nothing else make common cause against one who surpasses them. They are like prairie wolves that run in packs to pull down the buffalo, and I shall pity them as I would pity wolves. They shall find that I have a long memory.

I have decided. I shall marry Strathay.

February—March—April—three long, long months, and still Ned doesn't come, does not write. Yes, it's time to act; thank God, I've still some pride!

While Darmstetter lived, I couldn't have left New York; but now, now that I am safe, why should I stay here, flatting with a shrew, provoking the Van Dams, to whom I owe some gratitude, wasting my life for a man who—who said he didn't love me?

Milly's at home again; let Ned return to her, if he chooses. I shall marry Strathay. Meg shall be friend to a Countess. Then I shall be quits with her and with Mrs. Henry and with Peggy. And the "best people" will no more fight shy of me—though they don't now; they don't need to. Except Mrs. Schuyler, who has snubbed me just enough to leave herself right, whatever happens, few of them have ever met me.

I owe no thanks to Mrs. Whitney, with her prunes and her prisms and her penny-pinchings. I must secure my future.

And there's only one way—Strathay. I've been foolish to hesitate. He tried to speak yesterday, after the flower tea—for that's the extent of my social shining now; I am good to draw a crowd at a bazaar!—and I should have let him; I meant to do so.

But I can't blame myself for being sentimental, weak, and for putting him off; I was tired out. What an ordeal I'd undergone! What black looks from the women! They'd rather have starved their summer church in the Adirondacks than nursed it with my help!

But he must have understood; I think he saw everything that happened. The girls at my stall were sulky because no one bought of them, while I was surrounded; and one, in lifting a handful of roses, drew them towards her with a spiteful jerk that left a long thorn-scratch across my hand.

I pretended not to notice. Then in a minute I cried:—

"Why, see; how could that have happened?"

And I laid my perfect hand beside hers, ugly with outstanding veins, that she might note the accident—and the difference. People giggled, and she snatched her hand away, blushing furiously.

I was in high spirits, with a crowd about me. I knew how tall and graceful I looked behind my flowers; and to tease Mrs. Terry, I pinned Bellmer's boutonniere with unnecessary graciousness, and smiled at her while he sniffed it with beatitude beaming from his moony face.

"Awf'ly slow things, teas," he said regretfully, as she bore him off'; "awf'ly slow, don't you think?" Really the man's little better than a downright fool; if he were poor, no one would waste a better word upon him.

As he went, I caught sight of a slight figure, a pair of jealous, worshipping eyes. Poor Strathay had seen the incident; had perhaps thought—

I took pains to be cordial to him, when he had made his way with Poultney to my side; and to Mr. Poultney, too; though I don't like him much better than Cadge does, with his cold eyes and his thin smile, that seems to say: "Hope you find my schoolboy entertaining."

An Earl is always entertaining!

Yet I ran away from him. I left the tea early. I wanted to think. All the way home in the carriage I marshalled arguments in his favour. I saw myself at court, throned in my brilliant circle, flattered by princes, consulted by statesmen, the ornament of a society I am fitted to adorn. I saw a world of jealous women at my feet and Ned convinced that I had been playing with him. I even rehearsed the scene we should enact when Strathay should speak; I foresaw the flush upon his face, the sparkle of his eyes when I should tell him that I would try to love him.

He must have slipped his cousin's leash, for he was at the Nicaragua almost as soon as I was. But there at home, with the boy's eyes fixed on mine, with the tremour of his voice telling me how much he cared, I couldn't listen.

I made talk with him, for him. I gave him no chance to speak, determined as I was that he should speak. I was conscious of but one desire—to put off the avowal.

At last he said: "Sometimes I fancy you're not happy."

His voice was tense. He was leaning forward in his eagerness; he looked so zealous to be my champion—so honest!

I tried to smile. I really liked him.

Happy! Out of memory there came to me a picture: I was creeping to Ethel's bed at night, whispering to her that I was the happiest girl in the world; she kissed me sleepily, and said she was happy too, and then I groped my way back to bed, and lay there in the dark, smiling. That was years ago. Three months? Years, long, long years ago!

Now it flashed across me that Lord Strathay loved me as I had loved Ned. That gave me a measure of the gift he was to offer. I felt Ned's kisses on my hands, bidding me be honest.—I felt other kisses, too; I saw—good God, how long must I see?—a gray old face—the face of Darmstetter! Happy! I closed my eyes to shut out the vision. I shuddered.

"You—really, I'm afraid you're very tired," he said, after waiting a little.

"Yes; tired," I gasped; "that's all."

But I knew I must marry him. I controlled myself. I smiled; I waited. I wished him to go on, but he was peering into my straining eyes with anxious sympathy.

"I'm afraid you're too tired to talk with me to-day," he said; "but—you will let me come again?"

"Yes."

Such a relief! Though what was to be gained by waiting? What must be must be.

Indeed an older man might have seen the wisdom of speaking at once. But Strathay looked wistfully at me for a moment, then turned away with a big, honest schoolboy sigh; and something like a sob broke his voice as he whispered:—

"I—I would do anything to serve you."

Then he went away.

Perverse! I will marry him. Other women take husbands so. I like him; I should like him even if he were not an Earl—and his name a career.

I shall make Strathay as fine a Countess as any cold, blonde English girl, and he'll be proud of me, and every man will envy him. I shall wrong him less than I should have wronged John Burke. I should have hated John if I had married him, for he'd expect love, where Strathay will be content to give it. Why, the one honest thing I've done was to break with John.

I wish I could afford to keep on being honest!

CHAPTER V.

THE LOVE OF LORD STRATHAY.

May 5.

Lord deliver me from the well-meaning!

Because of one pestilential dun, I've done what the weary waiting for money, money, money would never have driven me to do. I've been to Uncle, unknown to his wife, to ask advice. I might have known better.

It was with a wildly beating pulse that I entered the familiar little private office, thinking that Ned might be on the other side of the partition—near enough, perhaps, to hear me; that he might at any moment rap upon the door and enter the room as he used to do, upon such flimsy errands! I wondered how he would look, and what he'd say if he came; but he never did come, though the talk was long enough, mercy knows; long and profitless.

It was hard, with that cold sinking at my heart, to talk to the Judge, as he sat with his keen eyes fixed upon me, leaning back in his chair, at times frowning absent-mindedly.

"I've come to tell you—I've written home for money," I began breathlessly to explain. "But they don't understand, of course—it isn't half what I need, now. I really don't quite know what to do. And so I came to—"

My words died away into unintelligibility.

"Anticipated your allowance a little? Well, well, how much do you need?" he asked indulgently.

"I don't exactly know; not much," I cried eagerly, "I haven't asked Father to send it all at once. Two or three thousand dollars would be a great help—for the present."

"Two or three thousand! Is it little Nelly Winship who is talking about thousands? And what important scheme has she in mind?"

His tone was playful.

"To pay my bills.'"

"Bills aggregating thousands?" He dropped his paper cutter sharply. "Is it possible that in so short a time—if the recital be not too painful, pray explain."

"Oh, it's simple enough; the dressmaker would say: 'Do let me make you this, it's such a pleasure to fit you;' or, 'That would be the rage, if you'd introduce it.' And Mrs. Van Dam begged me to buy a hat from a protegee just starting in business, because it would be a help to have the beautiful Miss Winship for a customer. It did help the milliner, too, for I bought three and they were printed in the papers. But she wants her pay just as if it hadn't been worth the price twice over as an advertisement. And all the things for the flat—"

"Furniture?"

"Why, yes; we've rearranged the place and I've contributed a little. Uncle Timothy, you can see—I need more money than other women. I can't walk without attracting notice, and cab hire or a carriage by the month—and—and I can't shop for myself, you don't know what a difference that makes; and—oh, everything is different! Why, I've just had my portrait painted. But Father isn't a poor man." "He is poor, measured by New York standards. And he is sending you a great deal of money."

"Yes, but—I must have a lot more."

The Judge frowned slowly, considering what he had heard. Finally he said, slowly shaking his head:—

"Doubtless we should have warned you, upon your coming to New York, but I did not anticipate that one of your substantial Western stock would develop habits of extravagance; nor were they apparent while you were with us. I cannot think it was altogether our fault, and certainly it was not your father's. I am not unmindful of the recent unsettling experiences which furnish excuse for confusion of ideas; but, Nelly, I appeal to a head that should be logical, even if—I have never thought it giddy with adulation—to see the facts as they exist. You must yield to your aunt's wish and return to her or to Marcia—"

"Impossible!"

"—you must bring me your bills; doubtless we can give up the furniture—"

"Give it up!"

The coolly spoken words struck to my heart. Why, we had just finished arranging it! But he misunderstood my exclamation, and added:—

"I comprehend your reluctance, and I confess that I should little like to advise returning goods bought in good faith, if there were any chance of payment; but—let me see; are you of age?"

"Why, yes; just twenty-one."

"Is it possible? How time passes, to be sure! Yet—ah, the point is not important; the tradespeople should not have trusted you. Consider that you are unable to pay; the less of two evils is to return the goods as soon as possible, that they may be received undamaged."

"Oh, it's not so bad as that?" I said hastily. "Nearly everybody is willing to wait, and I—you know Aunt Frank doesn't want me, and I should be a—white elephant to Miss Baker. I must live somewhere. It's not my fault if my only friends are rich, and if I—but why can't Father—"

"I do not believe your father can pay your debts," he interrupted, "in addition to the generous sums he has already forwarded, unless—surely you were not suggesting that he should mortgage the farm in order to—pay for paintings?"

"I didn't mean that at all!" I cried; "I never thought of that. But how do people—"

"You and I must do what is to be done, if possible without distressing him," he said; "your father is not so young as he once was. If you have bought things for which your allowance will not pay, although"—he hesitated a moment, "—the situation is—ah—trying to Mrs. Whitney. I suppose her half of the common stock is secure?"

"Her half!"

"Has she been leaning upon your slender purse?" he asked not unkindly.

"Why—she saves money by me and I increase her social importance. Of course she had furniture, but it was old and—and—"

I could not find the words to explain to a man my horror of ugliness. He wouldn't have understood.

"Well, well, it makes no difference now. I must arrange matters for you, and I think you will agree, upon reflection, that the first step must be to give up whatever we can."

"But, Uncle—" I tried to speak calmly, to show him the situation—"Mrs. Whitney is a Van Dam, and they befriended me when—why, they would never forgive me; it would be ruin. And even from the practical standpoint—you wouldn't like to have your lawbooks sold, would you? Well, people have introduced me—and pretty furniture and pretty clothes and not to have any scandal or any talk—oh, you can see!"

"In the light of reports that reach me," said the Judge, "I might suppose that you"—he hesitated a moment, then continued, in an attempt at a bantering manner, "that you refer to your luxuries as preliminary to—ah—matrimony, which is said to be the only gainful occupation that my sex leaves almost exclusively to yours, and in which fine clothing is undoubtedly an adjuvant. But observation leads me to think that it is a business less profitable than is often imagined. Hm!"

He drummed on the table, and when he continued, he seemed talking to gain time, considering what he wished to say.

"I grant you," he said with his cumbrous playfulness, "that the sensibility of flesh and blood to beauty is as broad a fact as the effect of heat or cold. It is so universally recognised that we take a pretty girl, like original sin or the curse of labour, as a chose jugeÉ. Her sway must have begun with the glacial drifters and the kitchen middeners and the Engis skull man, when they and the rest of the paleoliths were battling with the dodo and the dinornis and the didifornis, and had no time for the cult of beauty except by proxy. Did it ever occur to you that we men drove a hard bargain with your sex when we compelled you to beauty, made you carry the topknots and the tail-feathers? Men propose marriage, women adorn themselves to listen. Let women choose their mates, and they might go as plain as peahens; and men would strut about, displaying wattles, combs and argus-eyed plumes."

"Women would be less beautiful if they proposed?"

"Some could not be, I fear." He pulled down his brows, considering the proposition, then shook his head positively, with a little sigh. "You will remember—was it not Darwin who said that women, in order to attract men, borrow the plumage of male birds, which these have acquired to please the females of their kind? Beauty must be the first law of life to the sex that has not the privilege of choosing. Under the circumstances, it is surprising how much of plainness women have preserved. Possibly because of the extraordinary directions which beauty culture may take. Burton asserts that the Somali choose wives by ranging the women in line for inspection; she wins a husband of note who projects farthest a tergo. Yet among famous Greek statues there is also a steatopygous Venus."

The office boy came to the door, and his knock woke Uncle out of his revery. He excused himself to his caller, and, returning to me, went on:—

"I have been—ah—I admit, rather evading the personal question. I wish, without seeking embarrassing confidences, to remind you that young people are apt to think bad matters—other than business matters—worse than they are. I am not asking questions, but, when I was younger, cynicism usually hid but ill the scars of heartache. Do not, I pray you, throw yourself away in the gloom of momentary unhappiness."

Did he guess—about Ned? That I was the one most hurt there? He should never know that I winced. I shrugged my shoulders, ignoring his fatherly glance, and faced him with a stare meant to be brazen.

"You do not at the present time believe in sentiment?" he said. "Then I shall adapt my argument to your whim of practicality, and speak of the rumours which connect your name with that of young Lord Strathay."

"Oh; that boy!"

"I presume you are right; he does seem to have fallen deeply in love with you. But—if indeed, you are dazzled by the glamour of a title—do not be too confident of his fealty. I know men better than you know them, my dear. Man loves beauty, but he does not always want to marry it. The rare white swan is admired, but the little brown partridge, clucking as she marshals her covey of chicks, is the type of the marrying woman. Again, no man is master of himself. That Strathay wishes to marry you, I can understand; but, perhaps, when he is not under the spell of your presence, he falls to wondering how you will pronounce the social shibboleths, and may let 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would.' It is idle to deny that, admitting as one must the existence of lines of social cleavage in modern life, it is often a mistake to overstep their boundaries in matrimony; though as to international alliances—"

"Oh," I said, interrupting his prosings with a light laugh, "you mustn't take the matter au sÉrieux."

"I take it so because it is serious." The Judge's eyes and his tone were very grave. "Forgive me if I remind you that these obiter dicta have grown out of a discussion of your money affairs, wherein you are bankrupt. If—and I ask your pardon if the supposition does you wrong—if you are relying on a brilliant marriage to help you out of financial difficulties—"

He hesitated a moment, then went on slowly: "Perhaps I ought to warn you that, if at any time this does become a serious matter, you will have powerful opposition. I had not intended to tell you—though now I deem it best—that Mr. Stephen Allardyce Poultney has lately done me the honour to call; and—"

"Lord Strathay's cousin?" I thought he could hear the thrumming of my heart. This was why he had beaten so long about the bush! "Was he—was he speaking about me?"

I felt a sudden chill of apprehension, and almost feared to hear the answer.

"He was; he came to the point with a refreshing directness worthy of a business man, and said that he wanted to know all about you."

"And you—"

"I need not trouble you with our conversation. In view of the attentions which his Lordship has been paying you, his cousin felt it a duty, he intimated, to make inquiries. He did not care a button, I inferred, for your position here, as it could not affect Lord Strathay's in England; but he had read the newspapers with pardonable perplexity, and asked if you were really the only daughter of a bonanza farmer. I did not feel it necessary to enter into particulars, but informed him that your father was rich in honesty and in the possession of a daughter good and beautiful enough for any Lord that lives. He thanked me and said 'quite so,' as Englishmen usually do say when they disagree with one. He added that he would try to get the poor beggar—for so he referred to his kinsman—away fishing.

"You will note that, in the higher social strata, the choice of matrimonial partners has progressed beyond the personal selection so confidently assumed by the scientists, and has become a matter for relatives to—"

"And my only relative in New York," I said slowly, wondering how fatal was this unexpected news, "has made it impossible for me to achieve a success that was almost within my grasp."

I don't see that the remark was so very terrible, but he looked at me with an odd air of astonishment and consternation. Then he seemed to consider it best to treat my natural disappointment as a joke.

"Not very serious is this conversation, as you have reminded me," he said. "You don't wish me to tell that which is not?"

"Why, naturally—no." I was stunned, but I forced a laugh. "But it is funny. Why—I was nearer landing the prize than I supposed, wasn't I?—that is, if I had wanted to land it?"

"Um—yes; it was rather close. But in this world you'll find strong men often dissuading weak ones from action briefly meditated."

He gazed at me solemnly, portentously, critically.

"Yes," I said, trying to speak with careless ease; "one Lord gone, but there are others. Don't be too hard upon Strathay, though. He's not so bad. His estates are not heavily encumbered, and he's as likely now to wed a music hall singer as a daughter of the Beerage. Perhaps such a marriage as he might have offered is not the best in life, but it is something that women who love their daughters as well as you love yours are glad to arrange for them. I should have made Strathay a very decent wife—"

But at the word I stopped; something in the sound of it shattered my cool philosophy.

"Of course, of course," Uncle assented. Then after a pause he went on, hesitatingly:—

"Nelly, these are not matters for a man to discuss with you. Why don't you run in and talk with your aunt?"

I hadn't the least intention of calling, but I answered him according to his folly.

"I must, some time; but I'm so worried—"

"Ah, yes; those debts. Could you not, if you are determined not to come home to us, seek less expensive apartments? You know that for any wants in reason your aunt and I—"

"I—I can't, just yet," I faltered, with a dreary vision before my eyes of such a boarding house as that from which Kitty rescued me.

"Very well, Nelly, but think about it; you will see that to go on as you are doing would be only throwing money into a bottomless pit. But bring me your bills to-morrow; I must have facts and figures, if we are to straighten your affairs. Now—you need money—"

He was fumbling for his check book. Badly as I needed help, instinctively I cried:—

"Oh, no; not that!"

"Quite sure? It is the situation that troubles you and not the butcher, the baker—"

"Quite sure."

"I desist. But sleep on what I have said. Remember that I am in your father's place, that I—your aunt and I—are very anxious about you."

He took my hand, seeming as perplexed as I am myself. He looked affectionate enough, but so futile.

So I came away heartsick. It's useless to argue with Judge Baker. He's a plebeian from his thick shoe soles to his thin hair; but he's honest. And yet—if he had been less ponderously precise—he might have said: "Why, really, I don't exactly know. Mr. Winship is a well-to-do man. It has been years since I knew, but I can ascertain and—"

Or he might just have told the plain truth—that Father has a large Western farm. Englishmen think all Western folks are rich. Why, I believe Meg Van Dam would dower me if I were to marry Strathay. I could make it worth her while. It wouldn't be the first arrangement of that sort in New York, either.

If only Strathay had seen me once more, no power on earth could have prevented an avowal; and marriage with a peer of England would have given me a station befitting my beauty.

But perhaps it's not too late. Strathay may not heed his cousin. If he comes wooing again, I shall not be so silly as I was the last time. Strange that I have not seen him. Can he have gone already?

I might do the London season by borrowing from Meg. It would cost a fortune, and—unless Strathay does propose—perhaps even she wouldn't care to finance me now.

I wish—-

Oh, I wish I could get out of my dreams the ghastly form of Darmstetter, as I saw him dead at my feet! He haunts me all day long, and all the night I dream of him!

And I wish I had not broken John Burke's honest heart—how wistful he looked, as he waited for me at the door of the office and helped me to my carriage! Perhaps Ned wasn't in the building; perhaps—he may have avoided me.

I wish I had not brought him sorrow, and I wish—

No, I don't! I just hope Milly is even more wretched than I am!

Father really might mortgage. I could easily pay it back. I wonder I never thought of that. I'll ask him. I will not take my bills to Judge Baker—to be lectured on the dodo and on lines of social cleavage—as if any man could be a match for me.

I'll never go back to Aunt Frank! There is Bellmer, now—and Strathay must soon return to New York, to sail.

CHAPTER VI.

LITTLE BROWN PARTRIDGES.

May 20.

I wonder if I couldn't earn money. For the last week—nothing but trouble. No check from Father. Hugh Bellmer I have not seen. Strathay has really gone, spirited away by that superior cousin.

And Mrs. Whitney has deserted me—oh, if it were not for money troubles, I wouldn't mind that, cruel as was the manner of it!

Of course the newspapers soon learned that Strathay had left town. Trust them for that; and to make sensational use of it! The first I knew of it, indeed, was when one day Cadge came bursting into the room.

"Isn't it a shame?" she began in her piercing voice; as ever at fever heat of unrest, she waved at me a folded newspaper.

"Emphatically; but what is it?"

"That fierce tale of the Echo; haven't seen it? We couldn't print a line. Big Tom says the chief has put his foot down; won't have stories about women in private life, you know—without their consent. But why didn't you—why can't you give us a whack at it?"

"Because there isn't a word of truth in the whole disgusting—what does it say?"

I had seized the sheet from her hands and rapidly glanced over the staring headlines. Eagerly she interrupted me:—

"Oh, isn't it the worst ever? But I see how it happened. They must have sent out a leg man to get facts, and when no one would talk, they stirred this up in the office. But—not to print, now—what are you going to do with His Lordship? Honest, Princess?"

"Nothing; there's absolutely nothing between us. He's a nice fellow, and I like him, and we're good friends; that's all. I—I knew he was going; fishing."

"Well, I'm glad of that. But so must I be going."

And she whisked out of the room, leaving in my hands this astounding outrage upon truth and decency:

BY EDWARD PEPPER.

Helen Winship is the most extraordinary woman living;

The most beautiful woman in the world;

A scientist of national repute;

She has just passed through a tragedy which has left an impress upon her whole life;

Most wonderful of all, she is the only American girl who has ever refused a titled lover.

This is her life story, told for the first time:—

Chapter I.—Death:

A woman's scream of agony!

A strange scene, like an alchemist's den, the light of falling day reflected from test tubes and crucibles, revealing in dark corners uncouth appliances, queer diagrams, strange odours. Upon the floor the inert figure of the foremost of New York's chemists; above his prostrate form, wild-eyed with horror at seeing his dramatic death, a beautiful woman, the most beautiful in the world.

This was the end of Prof. Carl Darmstetter;

This was how the legacy of science came to Helen Winship.

To carry it out, she has refused a title.

Chapter II.—Love:

Born upon a Western farm, Helen Winship's father is a yeoman of the sturdy stock that has laid the world under tribute for its daily bread.

Early she made the choice that devotes her life to science. She was the confidant of the dead chemist, whose torch of knowledge she took up firm-handed, when it fell from his nerveless fingers.

She is vowed as a vestal virgin to science.

Strange whim of destiny! Across this maiden life of devoted study came the shadow of a great name which for two hundred years has been blazoned upon the pages of England's history.

In the loom of fate the modest gray warp of Helen Winship's life crossed the gay woof of a Lord of high degree, and left a strange mark upon the web of time.

Love came to her—many times; but came at last in a guise that seldom woos in vain.

Chapter III.—Sacrifice:

Who has forgotten the memorable scene in the Metropolitan Opera House, when the beautiful Miss Winship took the vast audience by storm, causing almost a panic, which was exclusively reported in these columns?

It was followed by a greater sensation.

Rumour ran through the ranks of the Four Hundred, and the rustle of it was as the wind in a great forest. For one of the proudest titles from beyond the sea, before which the wealth and fashion of the city had marshalled their attractions, had passed them by to kneel at the feet of the lovely scholar.

The Earl of Strathay is the twelfth Earl of his house. He is twenty-one years old. His mother, the Countess Strathay, famous as a beauty, has been prominent in the "Prince's set."

Witley Castle, his seat, is one of the show places of England, though financially embarrassed by the follies of the late Earl.

It was Lord Strathay's intention, upon landing in New York to go West in a week; but he looked upon the fair investigator, and to look is to love.

He laid his title at the feet of the lovely daughter of Democracy, but with that smile whose sweetness is a marvel to all men, she shook her beautiful head.

She was wedded to learning.

Fretted by the pain, he plunged into the wilderness to hide like a wounded deer.

What shall be said of this beautiful woman, for whom men sigh as for the unattainable? That she is lovely as the morning? All New York knows it. That her walk is like a lily's swaying in the wind, her voice is the sweetest music that ever ravished ear, her hair a lure for sunbeams? It is the commonplace of conversation at every smart house.

For this lovely woman of science is no ascetic. She moves by right of beauty and high purpose, in the best society. This farmer's daughter walks among the proudest in the land, and none there is to compare with her.

Like the Admirable Crichton, no art is to her unknown, no accomplishment by her neglected. Her eager soul, not satisfied with dominion over the realm of beauty and of love, would have all knowledge for its sphere.

Amusing, isn't it?—to one who is not the heroine of the tale! The tragedy of Darmstetter revived, my scientific attainments—but oh, the worst—the worst of all—is the wicked lie that I am in the "best society."

Why, the very day before, we had been "at home," Mrs. Whitney and I, and hardly a soul that counts was here. Mrs. Van Dam had a convenient headache; I haven't seen her since Peggy's wedding. If she had not been so very civil—she and Mrs. Henry—I might think that even then she suspected that Strathay—

There were a few correct, vapid young men in gray trousers and long frock coats among our guests that day, but none worth serious attention. And the women!

One creature tucked tracks under the tea cloth, whereat Mrs. Whitney's pinched nose was elevated. Ethel saw the action—in spite of her mother and sister, the poor girl clings to me; I suppose it's natural that she should love beauty—and hopping round the table at the first chance, she pulled out one, chuckling mightily.

"'Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain,'" she quoted in undertone; "oh, Nelly, take your share of the unco guid and the riders of hobby horses, and be thankful it's no larger."

Ethel doesn't know how great it is. There was the woman who insists on gloating over me as a proof of the superiority of her sex; the woman who had written a book, the woman who would talk about Karma, and the woman—there was more than one—who would talk about the Earl.

After they had gone, Mrs. Whitney's disgust was as plain as her horror of their appetite for cake and other creature comforts. But the storm broke in earnest a day or two later, after the last reception we shall ever hold together.

I can't describe it. I don't understand it. Women are fast leaving the city; it was too late for an "evening."

But that made no difference; I do not deceive myself. I am pressing with my shoulders against a mountain barrier—the prejudice of women—and it never, never yields. Active opposition I could fight; but the tactics are now to ignore me. In response to cards, I get "regrets," or women simply stay away.

Men—ah, yes, there are always men, and many of them like as well as admire me. But there is a subtle something that affects every man's thought of a woman of whom women disapprove. They don't condemn me—ah, a man can be generous!—they imagine they allow for women's jealousies; but deep in their hearts lies hid the suspicion that only women are qualified judges of women. They respect me, but they reserve judgment; and they do not wholly respect themselves, for in order to see me, they evade their lawful guardians—their wives and mothers.

It may have been the wine—I overheard two young cads making free of my house to discuss my affairs.

"Mrs. Terry really dragged Hughy out of town?" one of them asked, assuming a familiarity with Bellmer that I suspect he cannot claim.

"Guess so; he's playing horse with old Bellmer's money; always wrong side of the betting."

"Needs Keeley cure. Good natured cuss; wonder if the Winship'll get him."

"Lay ye three to one—say twenties—that he gets away, like that Strathay—"

I addressed some smiling speech to the wretches, but through the whole evening my cheeks did not cease to burn.

When the last guest had gone, tired and hysterical as she was, Mrs. Whitney began a long tirade.

"It must be stopped! It must be stopped!" she cried, pacing back and forth.

The blaze of anger improved her. She must have been a handsome woman once—tall and slender, with fine dark eyes that roll about dramatically.

"I don't see what there is to stop," I said, perversity taking possession of me, though at heart I quite agreed with her estimate of the evening. "The object of an entertainment being to entertain, why shouldn't the men I know come to ours? If they stayed away, you'd be disappointed; but when they come, as they did to-night, you're frightened, or pretend to be."

"I'm not frightened; I'm appalled. I don't mean Mr. Burke, though he's a detrimental—and, by the way, he was as much distressed to-night as I was. I mean the men who have families—wives and daughters! Why didn't they bring 'em—or stay away?"

"I'd thank John Burke to mind his own business," I cried hotly. "He doesn't have to come here unless he wants to."

"There is only one way," she went on, as if speaking to herself, pacing the floor and fanning herself violently—for her face, and especially her nose, was as red as a beet; she really laces disgracefully—"there's only one way; I must fall ill at once. I must have nervous prostration, or—it's nearly June. I shall leave town. Heavens! What a night!"

"You're assuming a great deal. Our arrangements were made by two, and are hardly to be broken by one. You can't agree to matronize me—let me buy furniture for you, and then abandon me, cut off my social opportunities—leave me—"

"Social opportunity! Social collapse! Disgrace! Why, your prospects were really extraordinary. But now! Where was Meg to-night? Where was Mrs. Marmaduke? Why did my own sister-in-law stay away?"

"I don't know; do you?"

Her harangue begun, she couldn't stop. "Where's Strathay?" she demanded. "Gone; and no announcement—what was the matter? Needn't tell me you refused him! And why is the letter box always full of duns? Can't you pay your bills? Why didn't you say so earlier? Would have saved us both a deal of trouble!"

"I didn't tell you I had money."

"You played the part, ordering dresses fit for a Duchess, and things for the flat. You spent enough on a wedding gift for Peggy—or was it a promise to spend?—to support a family a month—peace offering because you'd abused her!—Of course if you'd made the great success everybody expected, you'd be on the top wave, and so should I. I don't deny I thought of that. But now—an evening like this—no women worth counting and a horde of men—well, it's bad enough for me, but it's worse for you. No one'll say I brought 'em."

"Oh, no," I assented.

"It comes to this, then," she went on at full heat, flushing and fanning herself still more violently; "either you or I must leave this house, and at once."

"Well, I sha'n't."

And so she did!

Whose fault was it that we were left in such a predicament—that of the inexperienced girl, or the chaperon's? What is a chaperon for? Mrs. Whitney has treated me shamefully, shamefully! Here I am all by myself, and I don't know what to do.

Ah, well, I must play my own hand. She shall regret this night's work, if I marry rank or money.

It is so strange how every one prospers except poor, baffled, loveless me, who have the greatest gift of all. I wonder if it is really Nature's law that the very beautiful must suffer; if this is her way of equalizing the lot of the poor and plain and lowly; her law of compensation to make the splendid creatures walk lonely and in sorrow all their days while plain ones coo and are happy. Was Uncle Tim right about the little brown partridges?

If I were superstitious or easily disheartened, I should say—but I am neither! I shall succeed. I will take my place by right of beauty or die fighting! If I see Lord Strathay again, he shall marry me within a week. They shall call it "one of those romantic weddings."

I can't live here alone. I have nothing to fall back upon; nothing but a father who doesn't answer my letters, and Judge Baker who lectures me in polysyllables, and John Burke—poor old John; what a good fellow he is!—who simply loves me; and Mrs. Van Dam, who was my friend as long as she hoped to rise by my beauty to higher place, but who has headaches now; and Mrs. Marmaduke—

I don't understand her desertion.

Ah—yes, there is another, my constant companion now.

He is an old man, thin and sallow. He lies prone on the floor, staring at me with dead, sightless eyes. He whispers from muted lips "Delilah!" and the sound of it is in my ears day and night; day and night!

My God! It will drive me mad!

CHAPTER VII.

LETTERS AND SCIENCE.

May 29.

I've revised my opinion of the newspapers. The Star has done me a good turn, a great service.

I had tried to borrow money of Cadge, for the third time, and she told me she had none—which was true, or she would have let me have it. Then she said:—

"Why don't you sell a story to some paper—either something very scientific, or else, 'Who's the Handsomest Man in New York?' or—"

"I think I ought to get something from them, after all the stuff they've printed; but how? To whom do I go?"

"Nobody! Heavens!" cried Cadge. "Want to create an earthquake on Park Row? You're a disturber of traffic. Let me manage. I know the ropes and it helps me at the office to bring in hot features. They might give you fifty for it, too."

And I actually did get $50 for digging out of the text books an essay on Rats as Disseminators of Bubonic Plague; they only used a little of it, but the pictures and the signature and the nonsense about me as a scientist were the real thing, Cadge said.

The money, the money, the money was the real thing to me! It has given me a breathing spell—. that and the hundred for signing a patent medicine testimonial; but I had to sacrifice more than half I got from both sources to pacify greedy creditors. And a month between remittances, and so little when they come! Father can't refuse to mortgage; why doesn't he write to me?

The day I took the article to Cadge I had a long talk with her and with Pros. Reid, who spends at the eyrie every hour he can spare. One must have some society or go crazy, though perhaps they aren't exactly what I'd choose if my kingdom had opened to me.

Pros. has shrewd eyes that inspire confidence—gray eyes with the tired night work look in them. He talks amazing slang at times, at others not at all; and I wish every one might be as kind and thoughtful.

I could think of nothing all the evening but my bills, and at last I was moved to ask him abruptly:—

"What can a girl do to get money, Pros.?"

"'Pends on the girl."

"This girl; a somewhat educated person; and grasping. One who wants much money and wants it right now."

"Princesses don't earn money; they have it."

"Suppose the Princess were enchanted—or—or something? Oh, you may not think me serious, but I really don't know what I shall do, if my ship doesn't come in pretty soon."

He looked quizzically at me; he thinks I plead poverty as a joke; Cadge would never tell him how I have tried to borrow.

"'Twould be a hard case, supposing it possible," he said, "because you would want a good deal of money, and because you'd be a bother to have 'round—too beautiful. You couldn't sell many newspaper stories, because you'd soon cease to be a novelty as a special, and would get a press ticket to City Hall Park. Reporting's another coloured horse altogether—poor pay, and takes training to get it. Beauty's a disadvantage even there; too much beauty. Tell you what you could do, though, if ever you should want to earn money—go on the stage."

"Girl I knew," said Cadge, "made a pot of money going round to summer resorts, giving women lessons, energizing and decomposing; kind of Delsarte; said it made her 'most die—to see 'em rolling on the floor like elephants, trying to get lean, and eating 'emselves fat four times a day, with caramels between—and not be able to laugh. Might try the Barnard girls. It can't be sure beauty to be up there; I've seen some of 'em. Say now; that's not so bad—'How to be Helen; in Twenty Lessons.' Or say, Princess; answer the great question: 'Does Soap Hurt the Skin?'"

She grinned. Cadge fancies, I suppose, that by any mail I may get a big check from home.

"You display almost human intelligence," said Pros, admiringly; "stage's better, though."

"But, Mr. Reid, that's too public."

"Inherited instinct; no more public than—than being a beauty." He gazed at me with mild audacity,—"Money getting's prosaic, off the stage. Most girls who want cash become tiddlety-wink typewriters at eight per; bargain price; fully worth four. Now that isn't your class; if $8 a week would satisfy you, which it wouldn't, do you suppose there's an office in town that'd have you? Men won't subject their clerks to the white light of beauty; wives won't stand for it, either. There are places where no girl can get work unless she's pulchritudinous. Catch the idea? A pretty London barmaid can't draw more beer than an ugly one, but draws more custom. What's a Princess to do with such jobs? You'd be like the man who wouldn't be fool enough to marry any woman who'd be fool enough to have him—in getting work, I mean. This is the other side of all that rot about Woman's Century and Woman's Widening Sphere. Never go into an office, Miss Winship; my wife won't, when we're married."

"'Cause she'll be in one already," interrupted Cadge; "why, if I had to mope 'round all day in a flat, I'd be driven to drink—club tea. Imagine it; Cadge Bryant a clubwoman!"

"Clubwomaning is exciting enough, election time."

"But men get money," I persisted. "Isn't there anything a girl can do?"

"I've a sister," said Reid, "—other sister out in Cincinnati—who wants a profession; law's the one I'm recommending. It's so harmless. Course she'll never have any practice; she won't get out and hustle with the greasy Yahoudis who run the bar now-a-days. No, so long as my sister has the career fever, I say law, every time. Cadge, why don't you study law?"

"The dear boy does so enjoy talking nonsense," Cadge explained indulgently.

"In ordinary business," Reid went on, "pretty women are only employed as lures for men. Swell milliners have 'em to overawe with their great grieving eyes the Hubbies who're inclined to kick at market rates for bonnets. Now there's dry goods, chief theme of half the race. You'd think there'd be a show there for a pretty girl; well, there ain't. It's retail trade; one girl can sell about as many papers of pins in a day as another."

"Some pretty cloak and suit models get big wages," said Cadge.

"Yes, in the jobbing houses. That's wholesale trade, and every dicker counts. Have to corset themselves to death, though."

"It's a fact," Cadge put in. "Many's the filler I've written about it. Girl has to destroy her beauty to get a living by her beauty."

"Sure! Fashions not made to fit women, but women to fit fashions. Then those girls have an awful time, if they're careful about their associates. Why, it's getting so a model is expected to sell goods herself—held responsible if she doesn't. No sale, no job next week. See the situation," Pros. added, "—on the one hand the buyer, a vain man away from home, with thousands to invest; on the other a girl who must get that money for her firm. Well, of course it's not so bad as that, but——"

"But I wouldn't corset myself Redfern shape and go into such horrid places for the world," I cried.

No more than Judge Baker, or Father, or any one else, could Reid see my situation. What do I care about earning $8 a week—or $80? I must have a great deal of money, at once; to pay my debts and to live upon. Men get money quickly—in Wall Street or by inventions or——

"Course not," said Pros. "You're the Princess; and Princesses may be Honorary Presidents and ask questions and take an interest, but they don't do things."

"Pros. is right about the stage," said Cadge; "that's the best sort of wholesale business. You sell a chance to look at you to fifteen hundred people at once; and folks can't paw you over to see how your clothes fit, either. I'd like it myself, but I'm too—well, after all, I might do; I'm at least picturesquely ugly."

And so the antiphony of discouragement ended in a laugh.

I wonder—women on the stage do get big sums, and they often graduate from it to society. If even a music hall singer can become a duchess——

Bellmer's father made his money in sugar, they say. If I had it, I could storm any position. I suppose Mrs. Terry has shooed him off on that automobile tour I heard about; but he must come back—and so must Strathay.

I can't wait long, I'm not safe an hour from human vultures hungry for money, though I've none to yield them.

I must do something. No sooner had Mrs. Whitney vanished from the flat in a whirlwind of tears and reproaches than in came the furniture man, as if he had been watching the house, to threaten that, unless I pay at once, he will take away everything. He was not rude in words, but oh, so different from the oily people who sold me the things. His ferret eyes searched the apartment; he seemed counting every article.

"The furniture's safe," I said; "it won't walk away."

"Of course it's safe," he answered with a suspicion of a sneer; "but when'll it be paid for?"

"I don't know; go away!" I said. "I've written to my father."

The fellow looked at me with open admiration.

"Better 'tend to this thing; better write again to—your father," he said and walked off, leaving me cold and tremulous with rage.

I must have imagined the pause, the inflection; but he has me under surveillance. Like a thief!

I flew to the dining-room and swallowed a glass of sherry, for I was faint and quivering; but before I had turned from the sideboard Cadge bounced into the room, tearing through the flat to find me, and stopped to stare, open-eyed.

"Drop that!" she cried.

"Oh, don't preach! I've just been having such a time!"

"Everybody has 'em; I've had fifty a year for fifty years. And I don't mind your drowning sorrow in the flowing bowl, either. But do it like a man, in company. Honest now, Helen."

She changed the subject abruptly to the errand that had brought her; but, before she went away, she looked curiously at the sideboard and said:——

"Helen, you really don't——"

"Mercy, no! Scarcely at table, even. Why I used to be shocked to see how things to drink are thrust upon women, even in department stores. But they're not all deadly; there's 'creme de menthe' now—the pep'mint extract Ma used to give me for stomach-ache."

Cadge laughed with me, but she turned quickly grave again.

"Mind what I tell you, Princess," she said, "and never, never drink even 'pep'mint extract' in the house like that, alone; if you do, I see your finish; reporters learn a thing or two."

She's right—for ordinary women. But I told her the truth; I don't care for wine. I've seen girls flushed at dinner, but I know too much of physiology, and I care too much for my beauty.

Still, in emergencies——

Emergencies—oh! I could have named to her the very day I first tasted wine. It was here in the Nicaragua, the day Darmstetter——

Well, well,—I mustn't think about that. I can't understand why I don't hear from Father. Impossible to make him see how different are my present tastes and pressing needs from those I brought from home. I hope he won't delay long about the money.

My position is becoming intolerable. I owe the butcher, grocer, furniture dealer, photographer—and the milliner is the worst of all. The money I got from the Star is filched from me by people who need it far less than I. Why, I even owe money to the maids, and I can't discharge either of them, because I'd have to pay her. But they must somehow be sent away.

I wonder if Father couldn't sell the farm. That would bring more than a mortgage; but it might take months, and even then I need in a single year more than all he has in the world.

Will any woman who reads the story of my life—the real story which sometime I shall write, leaving out the paltry details which now harass me—will any woman believe that the most beautiful woman in the world in the wonderful year, of the finding of the Bacillus actually thought of tramping the streets, looking for work, like a story heroine seeking her fortune? I shall have to do something—anything!

But I can't work; I'm not calm enough, and it would ruin my beauty.

The luck must change!

Sometimes I see more clearly than the sordidness of this horrible existence, a big palace with a terraced front and a mile long drive straight to the park gate, past great trees and turf that is always green; and long rows of stately ladies looking down on me from their frames on the lofty wall beside soldiers that have stood silent guard there three hundred years. I can see a beautiful woman courtesying to a Queen and all the world reading it in the morning paper; and a big town house with myriad lights blinking through the fog outside, where shivering wretches watch the carriages drive up to my door. For twenty—no thirty years—I might be the one inimitable and wholly adorable being, clothed with rare garments, blazing with jewels, confidant of statesmen, maker of the men who make history. History! I should be history!

I could do it all myself—I have never had a chance, never yet the glimmer of a chance, but I could do anything, conquer anything, achieve anything!

It is so little that I ask—the money to live upon, and a chance, only the chance—it is maddening to be denied that!—and fair play to live my life and carry out my destiny.

There was a time when I wanted less, expected less; like Cadge with queer, devoted Pros. or Kitty Reid, her hair blowing about her face, happy with her daubs, messing about in the studio. Was I happier when I was like that? I would not go back to it! I would not barter my beauty for any other gift on earth. I shall fight and fight to the last ditch. I don't propose to be a pawn on the chess-board.

If it comes to that, I shall know what to do!

June 4.

This has been one of my worst days, and I have for a long time had no days but bad ones. Three things have happened, either one of which would alone have been a calamity. Together they crush, they frighten, they humiliate me!

This morning came this letter from Father:—

Hannibal, May 31.

"DEAR NELLY:—

"I take my pen in hand to tell you that we are all well and hope that you are the same. It was a very cold winter and we were so put to it to get water for the stock after the dry fall that I am thinking of putting down a driven well this summer if I can find the money. Ma has a sprained wrist which is painful but not serious. John Burke sent home some little items from the papers. We are glad that you have been having a good time. We were glad that you had gone to Timothy's house, though John Burke said the girl you were with before was very nice. But twas right not to stay long enough to wear out your welcome. I do not see how I can get so much money. I have sent you all I had by me and we have been pinched a good deal too. I had a chance of a pass on a cattle train and Ma said why don't you go east yourself and see Nelly. But I said no school's most done and she'll be coming home and how can I leave? Shaw said she we can tend to everything all right so maybe I will come. I have written to Timothy and will do as he says. I have a feeling Daughter that you need some one by you in the city. Ma sends her love and asks why you don't write oftener. We wouldn't scarcely know what you was doing at all if it wasn't for John.

"Your Loving Father,

"EZRA D. WINSHIP." It seems I'm to have a new chaperon. He's a little stiff in the joints and his face is wrinkled and his talk is not that of society and he's coming out of the West on a cattle train. Good Lord!

Oh, yes, he'll come. Uncle Timothy'll urge him to take me back to the farm.

I won't go back! As soon as I had read this news I started for the Imperial Theatre to see the manager. I walked, for I have no more credit at the livery stable; and I was grimly amused to see in the shop windows the "Winship hats" and graceful "Winship scarves" that are coining money for other people while I have scarcely carfare.

The unusual exercise may have tired me, or perhaps it was some lingering remnant of the old farm superstition against the theatre that made me slacken my steps as I neared the office. I remembered my father's tremulous voice cautioning me against play-houses before I started for the city.

"Now don't ye go near them places," he said, wiping his nose and dodging about the corners of his eyes. "They're bad for young girls."

Why do I think of these things? If he cares so much for me, why doesn't he get me the money I asked for; instead of coming here-on a cattle train?

Whatever the reason, Puritanic training or fear of my errand, I walked slowly back and forth in front of the dingy little office of the theatre for some time before I conquered my irresolution and went desperately into the place.

They told me the manager was out, but after a little waiting I began to suspect that this was a dingy white lie, and so it proved; for when I lifted my veil and blushing like a school-girl, told the people in the office who I was, at once some one scurried into a little den and presently came out to say that Mr. Blumenthal had "returned."

Oh, the manager's an important person in his way; he has theatres in every part of the country and is a busy man. But he was willing enough to see me when his stupid people had let him know that I was the Miss Winship! Sorry as was my heart, I felt a thrill of triumph at this new proof of my fame and the power beauty gives.

When I entered his office, a bald little man turned from a litter of papers and looked at me with frank, business-like curiosity, as if he had a perfect right to do so-and indeed he had. I was not there to barter talent, but to rent my face. I understood that; but perhaps for this very reason my tongue tripped as it has seldom done of late when I blunderingly explained my errand.

"Guess we can do something for you," he said promptly. "Of course there's a horde of applicants, but you're exceptional; you know that."

He smiled good-naturedly, and I felt at once relieved and indignant that he should treat as an everyday affair the step I had pondered during so many sleepless nights.

"Must remember though," he added, "on the stage a passably pretty woman with a good nose, who has command of her features and can summon expression to them, often appears more beautiful than a goddess-faced stick. However, it's worth trying. I don't believe you're a stick. Ah,—would you walk on?"

"I don't understand."

"Stage slang; would you be willing to go on as a minor character—wear fine clothes and be looked at without saying much—at first, you know? Or—of course your idea's to star-you got a backer?"

"I don't understand that, either."

"Some one to pay the bills while you're being taught. To hire a company and a theatre as a gamble."

"Impossible! I want money at once. I supposed that my—my beauty would command a position on the stage; it's certainly a bar to employment off it."

"Of course it would; yes, yes, but not immediately. Why, even Mrs. Farquhar had to have long and expensive training before she made her debut. And you know what a scandal there had been about her!

"Not that there's been any about you," he added hastily, to my look of amazement. "But you know—ah—public mention of any sort piques curiosity. Er—what's your act?"

"My act?"

"Yes; what can you do?"

"Sing a little; nothing else. I thought of opera."

This proposition didn't seem to strike him favourably.

"I don't know—" he hesitated. "You have a wonderful speaking voice, and you've been advertised to beat the band. Who's your press agent?"

"I don't quite know what a press agent is; but I'm sure I never had any."

"Well, you don't need any. Now that I see you—, but I fancied months ago that you were probably getting ready for this. Suppose you sing a little song for me."

We stumbled through dim passages to the stage, half-lighted by a window or two high overhead. Mr. Blumenthal sat alone in the orchestra, and I summoned all my resolution, and then, frightened and ashamed and desperate, I sang the "Sehnsucht," following it with what Cadge calls a "good yelling song" to show the power of my voice.

Then the rotund little manager rolled silently back to the office, and I knew as I followed him that I had been judged by a different standard from that of an applauding drawing-room.

"Well!" said he, when we had regained his room. "You are a marvel! Sing by all means; but, if you must have immediate results, not in opera. Music halls get pretty much the most profitable part of the business since they became so fashionable in London. Tell you what I'll do.—I'll give you a short trial at—say a hundred a week. You've a wonderful voice and no training; but any teacher can soon put you in shape to sing a few showy songs. Give me an option on your services for a longer term at a higher figure, if you take to the business and it takes to you, and you can start in next month at the roof garden."

"The roof garden!" I cried out; but then I saw how foolish it would be to feel affronted at this common man with money who would rank me as an attraction among acrobats and trick dogs.

"I shouldn't like that," I said more calmly; "people are very foolish, of course, but I've been told that—that if I were to sing in public, my appearance would mark a new era in music; now, I wouldn't care to sing in such a place; I had hoped, too, that I could get more—more salary."

"Would seem so, wouldn't it?" said Mr. Blumenthal. "But it's a fair offer. Tell you why.

"You'll take with an audience, for a short run, anyhow, if you've got—er—temperament; but I run the risk that you haven't. I spend considerable money getting you ready to appear, and then you're on the stage only a few minutes. Another thing: Most people nowadays are short sighted; you have to capture 'em in the mass—two Topsies, four Uncle Toms, eight Markses the lawyers, twenty chorus girls kicking at once-big stage picture, you know, not the individual. And the individual must have the large manner. Yes, yes; I use you for bait to draw people, but I need other performers to amuse 'em after they're here. They want to feel that there's 'something doing' all the while, something different. Curiosity wouldn't last long; either you'd turn out an artist and—er—do what a music hall audience wants done, or you'd fail. In the former case you could command more money; never so much as people say, though. There's so many liars."

"I—I'll think over your offer," I said. "I wouldn't have to wear—"

"Costumes of approved brevity? No; at least not to start with."

Mr. Blumenthal also had risen. He looked at me, as if aroused to my ignorance of things theatrical, with a more personal and kindly interest.

"Sorry my offer doesn't strike you favourably," he said. "I'd like mighty well to bring you out; but if you hold off for opera—that isn't my line, though—mind you, I don't say it could be done; but if some one were found to put up the money, would you wait and study? Know what you'd be undertaking, I suppose—hard work, regular hours, open air, steady habits? That's the life of a singer. Your health good? No nerves? We might make a deal, if you mean business. Trouble is, so many beautiful women think beauty as an asset is worth more than it is; it makes 'em careless about studying while they're young, and it can't last—"

I never heard the end of that sentence. I flew home and went straight to my mirror. Sure enough, I fancied I saw a haggard look about the eyes—

My God! This gift of beauty doesn't confer immunity from fatigue, accident, old age. This loveliness must fade and crack and wrinkle, these full organ tones must shrivel to a shrill pipe; and I—I! shall one day be a tottering old woman, bent, gray, hideous!

And all the little disfiguring hurts of life—they frighten me! I never enter a train that I do not think, with a shudder, of derailment and bleeding gashes and white scars; or cross a street without looking about for the waving hoofs of runaway horses that shall beat me down, or for some bicycle rider who might roll me over in a limp heap on the paving stones.

Yesterday I saw a horrid creature; her face blotched with red by acid stain or by a birth mark. Why does she not kill herself? Why didn't she die before I saw her? I shall dream of her for months—of her and Darmstetter, old and wrinkled as I shall be some day, and dead—with that same awful look in my fixed eyes!

Ah, what a Nelly I have come to be! Is it possible that I once rode frisky colts bareback and had no nerves! I mustn't have nerves! They make one old. Mr. Blumenthal said so. But how to avoid them? Oh, I must be careful; so careful! How do women dare to ride bicycles?

And this theatrical Napoleon, part of whose business is the appraisement of beauty—did he suspect that mine was less than perfect? It was perfect a month ago.

He couldn't have meant that, or he was trying to make a better bargain by cheapening the wares I brought—

But I can't go upon the stage. How could I have thought of it? I mustn't subject myself to the late hours, the grease paint, the bad air! Of what use would be a mint of money, if I lost my beauty?

I steadied my nerves with a tiny glass of CuraÇoa, and looked again. The face in the mirror was beautiful, beautiful! There is no other like it! And gazing upon radiant Her, I might have recovered myself but for the third untoward event of the day.

It came in the shape of Bellmer.

Perhaps I ought not to have seen him alone, but it is hard for one who has lived in the free atmosphere of the prairie, and has been a bachelor girl in New York with Kitty Reid to think about caution. Besides, it was such a blessed relief to see his full-moon face rise above the darkness of my troubles! I greeted him with my sweetest smile, and did my very best to make myself agreeable.

"You've been out of town, haven't you?" I asked when the talk began to flag, as it soon does with Hughy.

"Aw, yes," he said; "pickin' up a record or two, with my 'mobe;' y' ought to see it; it's a beauty, gasolene, you know. Awful nuisance, punctures, though. Cost me thirteen dollars to repair one; vulcanize the tire, y'see. Tires weigh thirty pounds each; awful lot, ain't it? Stripped one right off, though, trying to turn in the mud; fastened on with half-inch spikes, too. Can't I persuade you to—aw—take a spin some day? Where's Mrs. Whitney?"

"Gone to the country; she—she's ill."

"Awful tabby, wa'n't she?"

"Oh, no; I like her very much, but she was in a hurry to leave town."

"So Aunt Terry said. Awf'ly down on you, Aunt Terry is," he drawled with even more than his usual tactlessness, "but I stand up for you, I assuah you, Miss Winship. I tell her you're awf'ly sensible an' jolly—lettin' a fellow come like this, now, and talk to you's jolly, ain't it? An' you will try my mobe? Awf'ly jolly 'twould be to take a spin."

"Very jolly indeed," I said. I turned my head that I might not see his shining scalp. Thank heaven, I thought, Hughy doesn't know enough to be deterred by two rejections, nor even by the gossip about Strathay. I wished—it was wicked, of course—I wished I were his widow; but I was determined not to repeat such folly as I had shown about the Earl.

"Very jolly," I repeated, "but you don't know what a coward I am; I believe I'd be afraid."

"Aw, no, Miss Winship," he remonstrated; "afraid of the mobe? Aw, no; not with me. I'll teach you how to run it, I do assuah you; awf'ly jolly that would be."

"Why, yes; that would be nice, of course," I said; "but—"

Oh, how shall I tell the rest? I was afraid of the machine; I knew I could never mount it, with his hand on the lever; I was just trying to refuse without offending him.

"—I'm such a coward, really," I went on; I smiled painstakingly into his stupid pink face that seemed suddenly to have grown pinker; and then I felt my smile stiffen upon my lips, for he had whirled around on the piano stool on which he was sitting, and he smiled back at me, but not as he would have done in Mrs. Whitney's presence. He—he leered!

"You wouldn't be afraid, with me, y' know,—" was all he said, but he rose as if to come nearer me.

"Oh, yes, I should—I should—" I stammered; I couldn't move; I couldn't look away from him.

I seemed face to face with some foolish, grinning masque of horror. My heart beat as I think a bird's must when a snake has eyed it; and a cold moisture broke out upon me.

"Oh, yes, I should!" I cried as I broke loose from the spell of terror, and made some halting excuse to get rid of him. I didn't dare even wait to see him leave the room, but fled from it myself, conscious as I went of his open-mouthed stare, and of his detaining: "Aw, now, Miss Winship—"

To get as far away as possible, I retreated to the kitchen, where I surprised Nora and Annie in conclave. They seized the opportunity to "give notice." Nora has a sweetheart and is to be married; Annie has invented the excuse of an ailing mother, because she dares not stay alone with me. They are both afraid, now that Mrs. Whitney—selfish creature!—has gone, and left me helpless against the world.

At any other time the news would have been a fresh calamity—for how can I pay them, or how get rid of them without paying? But with the memory of that awful scene in my head, I could think of nothing else. I don't know what I said in reply.

Bellmer's insult has stayed with me and haunted me. I had bearded a theatrical manager in his den and had been received with kindness and courtesy. He had even assumed that some things in the profession about which I was inquiring might be trying to a tenderly reared girl, and that he ought to give me advice and warnings. But this Thing bearing a gentleman's repute; this bat-brained darling of a society that I'm not thought good enough to enter, had insulted me like a boor under my own roof; and he would probably boast of it like a boor to others as base as himself! The poverty of it, the grossness of it!

I'm not ignorant, now. I know there's a way open to me—God knows I never mean to walk on it—but if ever I do go, open-eyed, into what the world calls wrong to end my worries, it will be at the invitation of one who has at least the manner of a gentleman!

Sometimes I wonder if I did right about Ned. If he had known that I loved him, if I had made it plain, if I were even now to tell him all the truth.—But he said—

I hate him! The whole world's against me, but I won't be beaten! I won't go back to the farm with Father. I will not give up the fight!

What shall I do?

CHAPTER IX.

A BURST OF SUNLIGHT.

June 8.

They say the darkest hour comes just before the dawn. It was so with me. My troubles grew too great to bear, then vanished in an hour.

Fate couldn't forever frown. I knew there must be help; some hand outstretched in a pitiless world.

Really I am almost happy, for in the most unexpected and yet the most natural fashion, my perplexities have vanished; and I believe that my life will not be, after all, a failure.

The hour before the dawn was more than dark. It was dreary. In the morning I did not care to go out, and no one came except one strange man who besieged the door—there have been many such here recently, dunning and dunning and dunning, until my patience was worn to shreds. This was a decent-looking fellow with a thin face, a mustache dyed black and a carefully unkeen expression that noticed everything.

"Miss Winship?" he said, and upon my acknowledging the name, he placed a paper in my hands and went away. I was so relieved because he said nothing about wanting "a little money on account;" he wasn't even coarsely insolent, like so many of them. He did look surprised at my appearance; so surprised that his explanation of his errand died away into an unintelligible murmur. But I wasn't curious about it.

I tried to read a newspaper, only to gather from some headlines that Strathay and his cousin were passengers by an out-going steamship. I wonder if it was all money, money, that kept him from me—or was it more than half the fear of beauty?

I couldn't read anything else, not even a note from Mrs. Marmaduke; it was dated from her country place; she hoped to see me—"in the autumn!" Peggy is in Europe; the General's going if she's not gone already. "May see you at the wedding of that odd Miss Bryant," ran her last brusque message. "I begged an invitation; really I like her. But the chances are against my being here."

All gone, I thought; my last hope, all my friends.

There was a note from Mrs. Baker; I compelled myself to glance at that, and when I had done so, seized my hat and veil. She would call, it said, that afternoon!

With no thought but of escape, I left the house; I cared not where I went, nor what I did. I knew the Judge had sent Aunt Frank to pry into my troubles; I walked with feverish haste, I would have liked to fly to avoid her. My hands shook.

Oh, I was wretched!

As I passed the Park, I saw that spring had leaped to summer and the trees waved fresh, green branches in the air—just such trees as John and I walked under, less than a year ago, making great plans for a golden future; and a golden future there must be, but I had then no hope of it, no joy in life, no happiness even in my beauty. One only thought spurred me on, to forget past, present and future; to buy forgetfulness by any caprice; to win diversion by any adventure.

After some time I saw that I was in a side street whose number seemed familiar; self-searching at last recalled to me that on this street lived two rival faith healers, about whose lively competition for clients Cadge had once told us girls a funny story.

Could there have come to my thought some hope of finding rest from sorrow in the leading of another mind? Impossible to say. I was near insanity, I think. I chose the nearer practitioner and rang the bell.

I can smile now at memory of the stuffy little parlour into which I was ushered, but I did not smile then at it, nor at the middle-aged woman who received me with a set smile of stereotyped placidity. Her name, I think, was Mallard.

"Have you a conviction of disease, my daughter?" she asked, in a low voice with a caressing overtone gurgling in its cadences. "You look as radiant as the morn. You should not think ill."

"I am not ill," I replied; "but the world is harsh."

"The world is the expression of our sense life to the spirit," she cooed. "We do not live or die, but we pass through the phenomena. Through the purifying of our thoughts we will gradually become more and more ethereal until we are translated."

I felt that momentary shiver that folk tales tells us is caused by some one walking over our graves.

"I'm in no haste to be translated," I said.

"No one need be translated until she is ready—unless she has enemies. Are you suffering from the errors of others? Has any one felt fear for you? That would account for what the world calls unhappiness. Is some one trying to influence your subjective state?"

"I am convinced of it," I said with wasted sarcasm. "But you can do nothing for me; you can't—can you work on unbelievers?"

"Most assuredly. We are channels through which truth must flow to our patients. I need not tell you what I myself have done."—Mrs. Mallard modestly cast down her eyes.—"Mrs. Eddy has healed carous bones and cancers. I—some of our healers can dissuade the conviction of decayed teeth. The 'filling,' as the world calls it, is, in such cases, pink and very durable. If these marvels can be wrought upon the body, why may not the mind be led toward healing? Confide; confide."

"Heal the world of its hate of me," I cried out. "What you say is all so vague. Does the mind exist?"

"It Is the only thing that does exist. Without mind man and the universe would collapse; the winds would weary and the world stand still. Sin-tossed humanity, expressed in tempest and flood, the divine mind calms and limits with a word."

I rose hastily to go. Chance alone and weariness of life had led me to enter the woman's parlor, but there was no forgetfulness in it. Impatience spurred me to be moving, and I turned to the door, with the polite fiction that I was leaving town but might soon consult the healer.

"That makes no difference," she persisted, getting between me and the door. "We treat many cases, of belief in unhappiness by the absent method. From 9 to 10 A. M. we go into the Silence for our Eastern patients. Our ten o'clock is nine o'clock for those living in the central time belt. At 11 A. M. it is nine for those in Denver or Rocky Mountain time region. Thus we are in the Silence during the entire forenoon, but it is always nine for the patient. Will you not arrange for treatment; you really look very badly?"

"Not today." I pushed past her.

To my astonishment the woman followed me to the outer door, abruptly changing her tone.

"I know very well why you don't get healed," she said. "You fill your mind with antagonistic thoughts by reading papers that are fighting some one on every page. You want to get into some kind of society where you can pay $15 or $20 a week and get free healing, and you are disappointed because I won't give you my time and strength for nothing, so that you can have the money to go somewhere and have a good time. Oh, I know you society people!"

By degrees her voice had lost its cooing tone and had risen to a shriek. I was amazed—until I remembered the rival across the street, who was probably watching me from behind closed blinds.

As I walked away with the woman's angry words ringing after me from the doorstep, I was divided between amusement and despair; I cannot express it by any other phrase. And that cynical mingling of feelings was the nearest approach to contentment that I had known for days.

The feeling died away; reaction came. It was the worst hour of my life. The thought of suicide—the respite I had always held in reserve against a day too evil to be borne—pressed upon my mind.

I wandered to a ferry and crossed the East River to some unfamiliar suburb where saloons were thicker than I had ever before seen them; and all the way over I looked at the turbid water and knew in my heart that I should never have the courage to throw my beautiful body into that foul tide.

From the ferry I presently reached a vast, forbidding cemetery, and as I went among the crowded graves there came floating out from a little chapel the sound of prayers intoned for the dead. I almost envied them; almost wished that I, too, might be laid to rest in the little churchyard at home.

Then I lay down flat upon the turf in a lonely place, and tried to think of myself as dead. Never had the pulse beat stronger in my veins then at that moment. There were little living things all around me, joying in the warm sun; tiny insects that crawled, unrebuked, over my gown, so busy, so happy in their way, with their petty affairs all prospering, that I wondered why I should be so out of tune with the world. And then a rain of tears gushed from my eyes. I do not think that any one who should have seen me there could have guessed that the prone and weeping woman was the most beautiful of created things; I do not think I have an enemy so bitter that she would not have pitied me.

I tried to think, but I was too tired. I had a vision of myself returning to the narrow round of farm life, to Ma's reproaches, to dreary, grinding toil that I might win back dollar by dollar the money I had squandered—my back bent, my face seamed, my hands marred, like Aunt Emily's; and I shuddered and wept and grovelled before fate.

Then I saw myself remaining in the city, seeking work and finding nothing. Teach I could not; every door was barred except—I saw myself before the footlights, coarsened, swallowing greedily the applause of a music hall audience, taking a husband from that audience perhaps—a brute like Bellmer! Better die!

But as the vision passed, a great desire of life grew upon me. It seemed monstrous, hideous, that I should ever die or be unhappy; the fighting instinct sent the blood galloping. I sat erect.

Then I noticed that the sun was gone, and the evening cool was rapidly falling. The little people of the grass whose affairs I had idly watched I could no longer see—gone to their homes maybe; and I turned to mine, desolate as it was, hungry and chilled and alone.

And that evening John Burke brought the sunshine.

CHAPTER X.

PLIGHTED TROTH.

"Helen, you seem tired," John said as I met him at the door—at first I peeped out from behind it, I remember, as if I feared the bogey-man—"Have you been too hard at work?"

"I've been out all the afternoon," I said, "and I suppose I am rather tired, but it was pleasant and warm; and I wore a veil."

There was a little awkward pause after I had ushered him to the reception room, and then, guiding the talk through channels he thought safe, he spoke about his law work, the amusing things that happen at the office, his gratifying progress in his profession.

"Oh," I said, "talking of the law reminds me—some stupid paper was left here to-day."

I found with some difficulty and handed to him the stiff folded legal cap the man had brought.

He glanced through it with apprehensive surprise, skipping the long sentences to the end.

"Why, this is returnable to-morrow," he said; "Nelly, I had no idea you were in such urgent money troubles; why didn't you send for me at once; this morning?"

"Oh, if that's all—I've had so many duns that I'm tired of them: tired to death of them."

"But this isn't a dun," he began in the unnaturally quiet tone of a man who is trying to keep his temper and isn't going to succeed. "It is a court order; and people don't ignore court orders unless they want to get into trouble. This paper calls you to court to-morrow morning in supplementary proceedings."

"I don't know what they are."

"You don't want to know what they are. You mustn't know. It's an ordeal so terrible that most creditors employ it only as a last resort, especially against a woman. This plaintiff, being herself a woman, is less merciful."

"Why is it so terrible? I have no money; they can't make me pay what I haven't got, can they? Is it the Inquisition?"

"Yes, of a sort; it's an inquiry into your ability to pay, and almost no question that could throw light upon that is barred. You'll be asked about your business in New York, your income and expenses, your family and your father's means. It will be a turning inside out of your most intimate affairs."

"Why, I should expect all that," I said.

"But, Nelly—" he hesitated. "You're alone here?"

He had not before alluded to Mrs. Whitney, though I suppose he understood that she had gone; I appreciated his delicacy.

"I'm afraid you'll be asked about that," he went on; "asked, I mean, how a young woman without money maintains a fine apartment. They'll inquire about your servants, the daily expenses of your table, your wine bills, if you ever have any; then they'll question you about your visitors, their character and number, and try to wring admissions from you, and to give sinister shades to innocent relations. The reporters will all be there, a swarm of them. You're a semi-public character, more's the pity, and some lawyers like to be known for their severity to debtors. What a field day for the press! The beautiful Miss Winship in supplementary proceedings—columns of testimony, pages of pictures—! Ugh! In a word, the experience is so severe that you cannot undergo it."

"I don't see how it's to be helped; is it a crime to live alone?" I said. "I won't ask Uncle Timothy for money—and have Aunt Frank know about it."

Again he hesitated, then he said more slowly, but plumping out the last words in a kind of desperation: "I've heard a woman—once—asked if she had a lover—to pay the money, you know."

I didn't understand at first; then a flush deepened upon my face.

"They wouldn't dare! This woman knows all about me; why, she's Meg Van Dam's dressmaker; Mrs. Whitney's too—" I said.

"I've heard it done," John repeated patiently. "You must pardon me. I didn't want to go into this phase of it, but it may explain what, with your permission, I am about to do. Now, before I go—for I must go at once to find this attorney, at his house, the Democratic Club, anywhere—I must be frank with you."

He was already at the door, where he turned and faced me, looking almost handsome in his sturdy manliness, his colour heightened by excitement.

"I must tell you one thing," he went on very slowly. "I haven't in all the world a fraction of the money called for by this one bill; but in a way I have made some success. I am beginning to be known. If I myself offer terms, so much cash down, so much a month, pledging my word for the payment, the woman's lawyer will agree. She'll be glad to get the money in that way, or in any way. But I must guard your reputation. I shall tell plaintiff's counsel that you are my affianced wife, that I didn't know how badly you were in debt—both statements are true—and that I assume payment. I wish to assure you that, in thus asserting our old relation, I shall not presume upon the liberty I am obliged to take."

I think I have treated John badly; yet he brought me help. And he had no thought of recompense. Since he has seen how useless it was, he has ceased to pester me with love making, but has been simply, kindly helpful. And I have been so lonely, so harassed and tormented.

It was far enough from my thoughts to do such a thing, but as I stood dumbly looking at him, it flashed upon me that here, after all, was the man who had always loved me, always helped me, always respected me. I almost loved him in return. Why not try to reward his devotion, and throw my distracted self upon his protection?

"I would not have you tell a lie for me, John," said I uncertainly, holding out my hands and smiling softly into his eyes.

"I don't understand—" he stood irresolute, yet moved, I could see, by my beauty. "Do you mean—" and he slowly approached, peering from under his contracted brows as if trying to read my eyes.

"I mean that I have treated you very badly; and that I am sorry," I whispered, hiding my head with a little sigh upon his shoulder; and after a time he put his arms about me gently as if half afraid, and was silent. I felt how good he was, how strong and patient, and was at peace. I knew I could trust him.

So we stood for a little while at the dividing line between the future and the past. I do not know what were his thoughts, but I had not been so much at rest for a long, long time-not since I came from home to New York.

Then with a sigh of quiet content, he said in a low and gentle voice:—

"It's a strange thing to hurry away now, Nelly; but you know I have so much to do before I can rest tonight. I must speak of this: Now—now that we are to belong to each other always—I must know exactly about all your affairs, so that I can arrange them. There are other debts?"

The word grated upon my nerves, I had been so glad to forget.

"Yes, I'm afraid I owe a lot of money, but must we—just to-night?" I asked.

"I'm afraid it's safest. It is not alone that you will be able to forget the matter sooner if you confide in me now, but how can we know that these proceedings will not be repeated if I don't attend promptly to everything? Some one else may bring suit tomorrow, and another the next day, giving you no peace. I'm sorry, but it is the best way. Tell me everything now, and I will arrange with them all, and need never mention the subject again. Then you can be at peace."

"Well, if I must—"

It seemed impossible to go on. Even the thought of how good he was and how he had taken up my burden when it was too heavy for my own strength made it harder to face the horrible business.

"—I owe ten dollars to Kitty Reid, and about twenty-five to Cadge," I admitted. "I didn't mean to borrow of them, but I had to do it, just lately—"

"Poor child!" said John, stroking my hand with his big, warm paw, as he would a baby's. "Poor child!"

"I've bills somewhere for everything else—"

It was like digging among the ruins of my past greatness to pull out the crumpled papers from my writing desk, reminding me of the gay scenes that for me were no more; but John quietly took them from me, and began smoothing them and laying them in methodical piles and making notes of amounts and names.

"I've refused all these to Uncle Timothy; he's been worrying me with questions—" I said desperately.

"Three florists, two confectioners," he enumerated, as if he had not heard me.

"—Women eat sweets by the ton, but lately there have been few of 'em in this house. Then here are the accounts for newspaper clippings, you know; Shanks and Romeike; but they're trifles."

"You must have been a good customer," John said, glancing about the dishevelled flat—I hadn't had the heart to rearrange it since Mrs. Whitney left. "From the look of the place, I believe you would have bought a mummy or a heathen god, if anybody had suggested it to you."

"I have a little heathen god—Gautama; alabaster—and a mummied cat."

"And you're very fond of that? But no matter. Shoemaker and milliner and furniture man; that makes eleven."

He lengthened his list on the margin of a newspaper.

"Well, I never paid Van Nostrand for that painting, and I've even forgotten how much he said it would be. And there's a photograph bill—a perfectly scandalous one—and another dressmaker; Mrs. Edgar; I went back to her after Meg's woman got crusty, but she never'll sue me. And the Japanese furniture shop and—another photographer—and here's the bill for bric-a-brac—that's sixteen. The wine account—there is one, but it ought to be Mrs. Whitney's; for entertaining. I suppose Pa and Ma would say that was a very wicked bill, now wouldn't they, Schoolmaster?"

"They would indeed, Helen 'Lizy; I'm not sure that I don't agree with them. By the way, does your father know about all this?"

"Yes, a little. I've begged him for money, but he won't mortgage the farm. And Judge Baker knows. He wants me to come back to his house, but of course I won't do it. I guess he's sent for Father; Pa's coming East soon, on a cattle train pass."

"A cattle train!"

John stabbed the paper viciously, then he said more gently:—

"A cattle train is cold comfort for a substantial farmer at his time of life; and I don't think we will let him mortgage."

That young man will need discipline; but I imagine he was thinking less about my poor old father than about—well, I needn't have mentioned the Baker house, but what does he really know of how I came to leave it? Perhaps suspicion and bitter memories made my retort more spirited than it need have been.

"We won't discuss that, please," I said with hauteur; "and we won't be too emphatic about what is past. It is past. I'll find out what is a proper scale of expenditure for a young lawyer's wife in New York, and I shall not exceed it. I've been living very economically for the sphere that seemed open to me. Perhaps I ought not to have tried it; but I think you should blame those who lured me into extravagance and then deserted me. I've had a terrible, terrible experience! Do you know that? And I was within an ace of becoming an ornament of the British peerage. Did you know that?"

"Yes; I don't blame you for refusing, either; some girls don't seem to have the necessary strength of mind. No; I'm not blaming anybody for anything. Nelly, next week it will be a year since our first betrothal; do you remember? Haven't you, after all, loved me a little, all the time?"

He looked at me wistfully.

"At least," I said, "I didn't love Lord Strathay."

I didn't think it necessary to correct him as to my refusal of the Earl.

"We'll see if Kitty won't take you in again until we can be married," he said, jabbing the paper again and changing the subject almost brusquely. "If you don't want to go back to your aunt, that'll be better than a boarding house, won't it? You pay the girls out of this, and I'll look after the other bills. There's a good fellow. Now, then what's No. 18?"

I fingered with an odd reluctance the little roll of bills he handed me, though it was like a life buoy to a drowning sailor.

"You'd better," he said, with quiet decision, cutting short my hesitation. "The girls won't need to know where it comes from, or that I know anything about it. It's ever so much nicer that way, don't you think?"

I put the money with my pride into my pocket, and continued sorting out bills from the rubbish. In all we scheduled over forty before we gave it up. Besides the Van Nostrand painting and one or two accounts that probably escaped us, I found that I owed between $4,000 and $5,000.

"That is the whole of my dowry, John," I said.

"I would as willingly accept you as a portionless bride," he declaimed in theatrical fashion; and then we both broke into hysterical laughter.

"Never mind," he said, at last, wiping his eyes. "I never dreamed that all this rubbish about you could cost so much; I ought to have had my eyes open. But now we aren't going to worry one little worry, are we? I'll straighten it all out in time. And now I really must go."

And so he went away with a parting kiss, leaving me very happy. I don't know that I love him; or rather I know that I don't—but I shall be good to him and make him so happy that he'll forget all the trouble I have cost him. Dear old unselfish, patient John!

And I am more content and less torn by anxiety than I have been for many a long day. It is such a relief!

And so I'm thinking it over. Even from the selfish standpoint I have not done so badly. John is developing wonderfully. He is not so destitute of social finesse as when he came, his language is better, his bearing more confident. He makes a good figure in evening dress. He will be a famous success in the law, and, with a beautiful wife to help him, he should go far. He may be President some day, or Minister to the Court of St. James, or a Justice of the Supreme Court.

Whatever his career, I shall help him. I have the power to do things in the world as well as he. And once married, I may almost choose my friends and his associates. The women will no longer fear me so much. He shall not regret this night's work.

So that is settled. I am so relieved, and more tired than I have ever guessed a woman could be. Tired, tired, tired!

I'm sure it is the best thing I could do, now; but—Judge Baker is right! What was it he said? "A loveless marriage,"—Oh, well, since I broke Ned Hynes's heart by setting a silly little girl to drive him away, and broke my own by breaking his, I haven't much cared what becomes of me; only to be at peace.

It will be a relief to move out of this accursed flat, where I have spent the gloomiest hours of my life.