A Colony of Girls

CHAPTER IV.

A SAIL ON THE "CYCLONE."

"They have hired the dear old Cyclone, Helen, because the men thought the wind was bound to be light to-day and we would have so much more sport in a small boat than on the Vortex."

Nathalie stood in the doorway, gesticulating eagerly with her slender brown hands. Her pretty face was quite flushed with excitement, and her hurried words tripped over each other in their anxiety to be spoken.

"You see we must make haste, for Dick says we must be at the dock at eleven, or we won't catch the tide."

"But what about luncheon?" interposed Helen quietly.

A comical expression of dismay crossed Nathalie's face.

"Oh, dear, I suppose you will want to kill us; but Jean and I, in a sudden fit of enthusiasm, said we would attend to that, and not one thing have we done yet."

"Did you think to provide any cold meat for sandwiches?" demanded the young housekeeper.

"Oh, yes; there are three stout chickens, some cold corned beef, and a 'bit of ham bone,' as Bridget puts it, gracing your larder."

"Well, we haven't a moment to spare, so call Jean, and let us get right to work."

The pile of sandwiches grew rapidly under the girls' deft hands, and little Larry, wandering in from the veranda, looked longingly at these interesting preparations.

"Wish I could go with you," he ventured, with sudden courage.

"Don't speak of it," replied Helen emphatically, as she ran out of the room to get a fresh supply of bread.

"Guess you'll all be drownded, anyway," and Larry eyed them with a superior and triumphant mien.

"That's right, my cheerful little brother," laughed Jean. "Always look on the bright side of things."

"Now, when shall we tell Aunt Helen we will be back?" asked Nathalie, as they were fitting the cover down on the well-filled hamper.

"Not later than five, I should think."

"Don't let's commit ourselves, Helen," suggested Jean. "It is such a bore, and we will be troubling about it all the afternoon."

"We must be home by five; I am not willing to leave the children any longer than that."

"Perhaps you can manage the wind to suit your own purposes. You know it generally plays more or less of a part in sailing," and Jean gave a vicious tug at the last unfastened strap.

"Don't be impertinent, Jean," Nathalie called out, as she ran swiftly upstairs. "Never mind, Helen, her youth is her only excuse."

"All the same, we shall be home on time if possible, dearie."

Jean laughed good-humoredly.

"I am always disagreeable," she admitted, "when anyone speaks with decision. I don't know why, but it sets my teeth on edge."

Dudley met them at the wharf with the cutter from the Vortex, and soon they were pulling swiftly out to the Cyclone's mooring. As they rounded the stern of the old oyster sloop, a young man was seen standing at the wheel, his slender figure held firmly erect, one hand shading his eyes as he scanned the blue waters of the sound.

"Who is that?" whispered Mollie.

"Up oars!" cried Dudley, intent on bringing the cutter up in good form, and in a moment more they were clambering up the gang-steps, and Mollie's question went unanswered.

"Hullo, Farr," called Dick cheerfully, and thus addressed, Lieutenant Farr left the wheel and moved leisurely forward.

"You will have to individualize for yourself, old fellow, for it would be impossible for me to name all these charming people."

"Time enough," spoke Farr, in a well-modulated voice, as he raised his cap and glanced at the group before him.

"Come, let us get off," he said, turning abruptly to the men, and soon the Cyclone was sailing lazily away before a light breeze.

"How delightful!" sighed Eleanor Hill, as she settled herself comfortably to windward. "This is my idea of bliss."

Farr paused an instant on his way aft and glanced interestedly at the girl's earnest face, then proceeded to his place at the wheel.

"For pity's sake, let somebody go and talk to that man," said Jean, dropping her voice.

"I fancy he doesn't care much about it," replied Eleanor quietly.

"You go, Em," Mollie suggested.

"Certainly!" and, nothing daunted, Emily started up.

"Who doubted her willingness?" laughed Nan saucily.

Eleanor shook her head at the speaker.

Dick threw himself down in the midst of the group of girls and kept up an incessant chatter.

One voice was lacking in the general interchange of nonsense, for to-day Jean Lawrence, who was usually the merriest of them all, found her interest flagging strangely. Sitting somewhat apart from the others, her eyes wandered persistently to where Farr was courteously and patiently initiating Emily Varian into the art of steering. There was something about the man that caught her attention and held it almost against her will. She noted with what an air of distinction his rough yachting flannels were worn, and how beautifully shaped were the long slender hands which moved so lazily, yet with such a suggestion of strength. His cap was drawn down over his face, so that only the lines of a well-molded mouth and chin were revealed, and Jean found herself waiting with almost childish interest for a glimpse of the eyes so tantalizingly hid from view. A sudden shout of boisterous laughter from Dick brought her sharply to herself, and with a keen sense of shame, and a passionate hope that her defection might have passed unnoticed, she turned and plunged into the conversation.

"Let us have some songs, girls," suggested Eleanor. "We are getting very much demoralized, and I don't know what that strange man will think of us."

"Oh, if I were a little bird how happy I would be," began Jean, with more energy than correctness.

"Hold on, Jeanie," interrupted Nathalie, catching up her mandolin, "the other words have lots more flavor."

"There, that will do, Nathalie," interposed Helen with decision.

"Not at all," cried Jean.

Jean sang the foolish words recklessly, and when she had finished shot a half-defiant glance from under her long lashes in Farr's direction. His eyes met hers with a long, steady look. Somewhat disconcerted, Jean flushed hotly and turned hurriedly away.

"That was a daisy, Jean," and Dick roared with laughter.

When the merriment had subsided a little:

"Farr," said Dudley, rising and making his way out of the circle, "I think you have had your turn at the wheel. Suppose I take your place for a while."

"I hope you are not very much bored, Mr. Farr," ventured Jean shyly.

"Quite the reverse—much entertained," he replied quietly.

Jean wondered if there were a touch of sarcasm in this reply, but his face was impenetrable.

"Charming accent he has," smiled Eleanor in an aside to Nan.

"I wonder where he got it, don't you?"

"Have you lived very much abroad, Mr. Farr?" queried Eleanor, turning politely to him.

"And why do you ask?"

"Why, your accent is so un-American."

A broad smile crossed Dudley's face as he caught Miss Hill's words. It amused him not a little to hear reticent Farr thus catechized.

"Where are you from?" asked Nathalie, coming to the front in her usual outspoken fashion.

Farr glanced at her, and then, after an instant's hesitation, answered languidly.

"From New Jersey."

At this the little group, throwing manners to the winds, burst into merry laughter.

"Doesn't look a bit like a mosquito," said Nan to Mollie in an audible whisper.

Poor Mollie looked quite horror-struck, for she felt sure that the saucy words had reached Farr's ear.

If the man felt any annoyance he was most successful in concealing it, for his expression remained quite unchanged. Not so with poor Jean, who had flushed hotly at what she considered Nan's unwarrantable impertinence. She made a swift, angry little movement, and the book she had been holding slipped to the deck. Farr leaned forward, and picked it up. As he returned it to her his eyes met hers with a quiet, reassuring smile, for he had been quick to notice the girl's silent championship, and it had greatly touched him. The color in Jean's face deepened, and with sudden shyness she dropped her eyes.

"Have a cigar, Farr?"

To these two Clifford Archer's question came almost like an interruption, although no word had been spoken between them.

"No, thanks," taking from his pocket a silver case of curious design, "but, if no one objects, I will light a cigarette!"

"I can't help it," cried Nathalie, laughing until the tears were in her eyes, "did you hear the way he said that word 'cigarette,'—with such a lingering over each syllable? I am sure you are a Spaniard, Mr. Farr, in spite of New Jersey."

"I knew it," Nan put in, "the moment you spoke."

"Ah," exclaimed Nathalie, drawing back in mock affright, "you are an exile."

"How interesting," spoke Nan. "Do tell us all about it."

"About what?" queried Farr coolly, and Nan subsided, feeling suddenly very much embarrassed.

Eleanor Hill caught an expression half impatient in Farr's eyes, and turned warningly to Nathalie.

"You will be sorry."

"When I'm sober," interrupted the young girl merrily.

"What a rowdy you are, Nat; Helen is looking at you most disapprovingly."

A shrug of the shoulders was Nathalie's only answer, and starting up she crossed over, and stood before Farr, where he sat at Jean's side.

"You have been very good and patient," she assured him with a mischievous twinkle in her brown eyes, "and now I am going to reward you by unpacking the luncheon hamper."

"That's a good idea," cried Dick; "I am almost starved to death."

"What delicious salad," exclaimed Churchill a few moments later, as they sat about the open hamper. "Miss Helen, you are a culinary artist."

Helen smiled her thanks.

"May I not sit by you, Eleanor," pleaded Clifford Archer, dropping down on the deck at her side. "With you near me I could never know hunger or thirst."

"Nonsense," frowning on him in seeming disapproval. "I think your appetite is one which stands you in good stead."

He was a handsome youth, graceful in the extreme. It was a constant source of annoyance to Eleanor Hill that she found him so charming, for, she often assured herself, there was nothing to the boy but his good looks and perfect manners. But who will dare to say that these are nothing?

"I do hope there are plenty of sandwiches," sighed Nan, as she sat eating her fourth.

Dick tipped up the plate, depositing a dozen or more in her lap.

"That enough?" he asked innocently.

"You idiot!" cried Nan.

"Do say something new, Nan," called Mollie from the other side of the boat. "That is the third time to-day you have given Dick that appellation."

"How can I help it," groaned Nan, "when it characterizes him so perfectly?"

"You can't," said Nathalie consolingly, "and if I were you I would not attempt to."

Dick looked at both girls with withering scorn, then glanced by them as if their existence were a matter of small import.

"Helen, can I open the beer and ginger ale now?"

"If it will be any comfort to you, Dick, you have my consent."

"I think I will try another sandwich, if Miss Birdsall can spare me one."

"Then catch, Mr. Farr," and Nathalie tossed him one, with unerring aim.

"O Nathalie," protested Jean, with changing color.

"Well, I am glad to know he is not a muff," said Nathalie, as Farr caught the sandwich. "What is the matter, Jean? I didn't know you were so easily shocked."

"Look out for the boom," called Dudley most opportunely, and the Cyclone came swiftly about.

"What an unfortunate move. Now the sun is right in our eyes," and Jean looked up at Farr appealingly. "Won't you please have it removed?"

"Why, certainly. Are not your wishes my law?" and even as he spoke the sun slipped under a cloud.

"What a wonderful man," Eleanor Hill laughed softly.

The afternoon sped away all too rapidly, and the hours were as minutes to the happy young people skimming the waters of the beautiful sound. Nature was at her very best this sunshiny summer afternoon. Light fleecy clouds scudded swiftly across the delicious blue of the vaulted sky above, and in the distance the low, far-stretching, Long Island shore was bathed in a soft, violet haze, broken here and there by patches of white, glistening sand.

The Cyclone, with every yard of canvas set, was running gayly before the breeze, which since noon had grown strong and steady. The swash of the water against the boat, the slight straining and creaking of the rigging, the sighing of the wind in the sails, were sounds sweet as music to the ear of every true lover of the sea.

And now the summer day began to wane, and in the western sky the sun was shining with a brilliant radiance.

"Ah!" sighed Jean softly, as they dropped anchor in Hetherford Harbor, "why do all pleasant things come to an end?"

"But they invariably do," and there was a touch of genuine regret in Farr's voice, which was quite sincere; for in this last pleasant hour, he had thoroughly enjoyed a delightful tête-à-tête with his pretty companion, and had every reason, in spite of the merry chaffing of these gay young strangers, to vote the day a great success.

CHAPTER V.

SUNSET-HOUR ON THE CLIFFS.

The following morning the girls were collected together in the upper balcony of the manor, where the clustering vines afforded a welcome shelter from the sun's hot rays. A wicker table, laden down with books and work baskets, occupied a central position, and the low rockers which surrounded it were tilted swiftly back and forth as the girls worked and chatted in an easy, desultory way. On the wide old-fashioned settle in the background sat Eleanor Hill and Nan Birdsall; Eleanor lounging lazily back among the cushions, her hands resting idly in her lap, Nan all curled up in a heap, her sketchbook on her knee, her deft fingers making rapid strokes with a long, well-sharpened pencil.

"Do you know," spoke Eleanor Hill, "I fear we behaved very badly yesterday. I have had qualms of conscience ever since, and a growing conviction that we made perfect fools of ourselves in the eyes of those two strange men."

"Better that than dullards," laughed Nan lightly.

"Hobson's choice," said Jean dryly.

Just then Helen, with a somewhat preoccupied air, pushed back her chair and passed into the house, her mind evidently intent on some domestic question. Nathalie's eyes followed the retreating figure, until it was quite lost from view in the shadowy hallway, and then were bent thoughtfully on her work again.

"To change the subject, girls," she began, after a moment, devoting herself energetically to the threading of her needle, and tossing her head impatiently at every unsuccessful effort; "have you heard the news? Helen's friend, Miss Stuart, is coming down upon us for a visit."

"Yes, indeed we have." Emily's sigh came from the depths of her heart. "I can't imagine what we will do with another girl here."

"What she will do with us may be more to the point," and Jean raised her eyebrows expressively. "I don't know how it is, but I am apprehensive about this visit. I suppose," with a sort of honest protest in her voice, "that I have never really liked Miss Stuart."

"Nor I," agreed Nathalie. "There is something about her that I do not trust. And the worst of it is," with a grimace, "that she winds Helen around her little finger. It always makes me so angry."

"Nonsense, Nat. You do Helen an injustice," objected Eleanor pleasantly. "However, I frankly confess to a fear that the harmony of our own little circle will be somewhat marred by the advent of a stranger."

"That's so, and then you know she is such a swell that she will probably look down upon us poor country girls with the utmost scorn," and Nathalie gave a vindictive tug at her knotted thread.

"Of course she is devoted to men?" queried Emily lugubriously.

"Oh, I should judge so, although I have never seen her with them. You know she has only stopped with us in the winter season, when we have been alone."

"Let us do her the justice to suppose that the men are equally devoted to her," added Jean generously.

"It amounts to about the same thing, whether she is devoted to men, or they to her," and there was in Emily's tone such a note of tragic melancholy that the girls could not refrain from laughing.

"Oh, what a happy nook and cranny of the great world this dear old Hetherford is," cried Eleanor, clasping her hands behind her head, and looking out with dreamy eyes over the sweep of softly undulating lawn that stretched away toward the manor gates. "It all seems so idyllic to me. There is so much petty jealousy and miserable heartburning beyond the confines of this little haven of rest. People's motives are so often selfish that one grows strangely doubting, even of one's friends. Do you know," leaning forward impulsively and speaking with deeper earnestness, "I think we girls have found the secret of true friendship—mutual trust and respect. These are what have made our long intercourse such a happy one."

"Indeed you are right, Eleanor, dear," Jean replied gently.

"The bother of it all will be," interrupted Nathalie following out her own train of thought "that Mademoiselle will come here with trunks full of fine clothes, and we will be obliged to dress up."

"I would like to see the girl who could make me discard my shirt and blazer," laughed Nan defiantly.

"How would we look en grande toilette with such hands as these," said Jean, thrusting forward her own little brown ones.

"Attractive, but from a different standpoint," Nan asserted with a fine assumption of authority. "Everything depends upon your point of view, according to Henry James. Now, from my artistic pinnacle," tilting her head to one side, and surveying the group with critical, but approving eyes, "I declare I prefer brown hands to white ones."

"By the way," asked Jean, with well-feigned indifference, "what did you think of the naval officers?"

"To return to our muttons," murmured Nathalie, with a sidelong glance at her sister.

"Mr. Dudley was very pleasant and agreeable," replied Emily, "but I thought Mr. Farr rather uninteresting."

"Well," laughed Eleanor demurely, "Nan is right. Everything does depend upon one's point of view. Now I thought Mr. Farr decidedly attractive, and Mr. Dudley just a good-natured boy."

"That reminds me of something I saw in the paper the other day," Jean observed smilingly. "To the question 'What is taste?' the answer was given, 'There is no such thing, except on the principle that some people haven't any.'"

"That is a fine way of disposing of one," and there was an expression of quiet amusement in Eleanor's eyes. "Never mind, dear," leaning forward and pinching Jean's cheek, "I will forgive you. Besides," dropping her voice, "you know that you agree with me."

"Now, what are you girls whispering about?" complained Nathalie. "Oh, bother this sewing," she went on irrelevantly; "I have had enough of it for to-day," and the bit of work was tossed impatiently into her basket.

This was the signal for a general uprising, and then, as they were dispersing, Nathalie made the announcement:

"Helen has asked Mr. Dudley and Mr. Farr to dinner to-morrow night."

"Yes," answered Mollie, turning back from the open doorway, "and Captain Dodd and his wife, too. Dick says," with an air of profound conviction, "that they are delightful."

"That settles it," laughed Nan, "Dick can't be wrong. Come on, Moll," linking her arm in Mollie's, "I am going to take you home to luncheon with me to-day."

It was late that afternoon when Jean, who had been reading for hours on the quiet veranda, suddenly jumped to her feet, with a little sigh of weariness, and tossed her book into a neighboring chair. She was tired of sitting still so long and felt in the humor for a walk. Slowly she made her way down the broad steps and across the grounds of the manor. Strolling on in a reverie, and heeding but little in which way her steps were taking her, she came upon the great iron gates which opened out into the roadway. Passing through them she wandered listlessly on toward the water.

It was the loveliest hour of the bright, sunny June day. Already the shadows were lengthening, and a little whiff of cooler air was stirring after the warmth of the noonday. The sun was nearing the western horizon, now shining out in bright radiance, now obscured by some light passing cloud. The murmur of a little brook which followed the roadside, and the whispering of the wind among the leaves, made a soft music. Now and then a bird darted by overhead, singing out a shrill note in some high key, then dropping into a soft coo. A squirrel ran out from the thicket, sped across the road, and disappeared over a low stone wall.

"Oh, you foolish little chap," exclaimed Jean, half-aloud, as Master Squirrel gave her one glance from his bright eyes, before dropping out of sight. "You are the swiftest little fellow I have ever seen."

It was growing rough and heavy underfoot now, and in a moment more Jean had reached the beach, and was strolling down toward the cliffs.

The water was alive with boats, their white sails glimmering in the sunlight, as the dying breeze bore them slowly on their way.

At the foot of the cliffs Jean paused a moment. The glory of the golden light fell on her slender, girlish figure, and illumined her wistful, upturned face. As her eyes rested lovingly on the beautiful scene that lay before her a deep sigh of pleasure escaped her slightly parted lips, for to-day the old familiar sights and sounds seemed strangely new and sweet. A narrow beaten track led temptingly to the summit of the cliffs whence a magnificent view could be obtained, and after an instant's hesitation she began the steep ascent. Turning the corner of a sharp rock, which reared itself boldly into the air, she came suddenly to a standstill, uttering a stifled exclamation, for almost at her feet, stretched at full length in a sheltered cranny of the rocks, lay Valentine Farr, his hat drawn down over his forehead, his eyes thoughtfully intent upon the distant horizon. As Jean's exclamation reached him, he glanced quickly up and sprang to his feet.

"Why, Miss Lawrence, this is indeed an unexpected pleasure. You stole a march on me. I did not hear your approach at all."

"Indeed, I am equally surprised, Mr. Farr, and I assure you you really startled me. I came upon you, so suddenly."

Farr's eyes rested admiringly on the soft color in the girl's face as she went on:

"And may I ask how you hit upon my particular retreat in these rocks? Let me warn you. You can only make yourself happy in it with my especial permission."

"I had no idea I was trespassing. Pardon my curiosity, but by what right do you hold your title to this spot?" he queried with an amused smile.

"By the right of priority. Do you know of any better, Mr. Farr?" with a pretty air of defiance. "When I was a little girl in pinafores I played here with my doll; when I was a schoolgirl I studied my lessons in this dear spot; and now that I am a grown woman," drawing herself up to her full height, and glancing at him merrily, "I come here to read, to ponder, and to think."

"A sacred spot indeed," spoke Farr laughingly, but with just a little lowering of his voice. "I yield at once, for I see that no one could dispute your right."

"No one." She threw out her hand with a pretty gracious gesture. "But won't you let me extend to you an invitation to occupy it whenever you feel inclined?"

"Thanks, ever so much," he rejoined heartily, "You are very good. And now, can't I persuade you to rest a little after your climb, Miss Lawrence?"

She slipped down on the rocks, and he threw himself at her side.

"What delightful times you all seem to have here," he went on. "Do you know I think this is a most charming place, quite an Elysium." Jean's soft eyes lighted up with pleasure.

"I am so glad you like it, but I fear you will find very little to interest you in so sleepy a place."

Farr was about to make answer in words of conventional flattery, but something in the girl's tone of sincerity and good faith deterred him and impelled him to reply in kind.

"But I assure you I am delighted with it. You know we knock about a good deal, and some of our stations are almost unendurable. We have been on the Sound for several months now, and this is to me by far the pleasantest place in which we have cast anchor."

"It does my heart good to hear you say that," she rejoined naïvely, "for naturally Hetherford is very dear to us."

"You have lived here all your life, Miss Lawrence?"

"Ever since I was a wee little girl. Of course we have been away from time to time, but we are always glad to get back again."

"I can well understand your feeling so, although I have had very little of home life myself." Farr sighed as he uttered these last words.

Jean looked at him with gentle sympathy. "You say that sadly," she said.

"Do I?" He turned on his elbow, and his grave eyes met hers. His next words were prompted by a sudden unwonted impulse. "Perhaps I will tell you about it some day."

Then a silence fell between them.

The sweet stillness held its sway o'er land and sea, its perfect harmony emphasized by the soft lapping of the waves against the shadowy sands below. The breeze was dying with the dying sun. Just off the shore a little white-sailed cat-boat was drifting in with the flowing tide.

Jean drew a long breath and started swiftly to her feet.

"Why, how late it is growing," she exclaimed. "I must be going, Mr. Farr."

"Already?" he said, and then they made their way down the rugged cliff.

"Take care, Miss Lawrence," he cried, as she missed her footing and slipped a little. "Please let me assist you," and he extended his hand.

Jean put her hand in his with a demure uplifting of her eyebrows, and just a fleeting smile on her lips. There flashed through her mind the thought:

"How unmercifully Nan would chaff me, if she could catch a glimpse of me now."

The descent was a brief one, and soon they had crossed the sands and were strolling along the road in the direction of the manor.

"You are coming to dine with us to-morrow night, are you not, Mr. Farr?"

"Your sister was good enough to ask us, and I shall be only too delighted to avail myself of her kind invitation."

"I really will not let you come any further with me," she declared as they reached the manor gates. "I fear, as it is, I have taken you very much out of your way, and it must be late."

"It is close upon seven," he told her after looking at his watch. "And you dine?"

"At seven, and let me warn you now that to be late is to meet with my sister's ire."

"I shall remember," he answered, with his pleasant laugh. "And now can I not see you to your door?"

"No, indeed. I must hurry away," she said as they shook hands, "for time, tide, and dinner at the manor wait for no man. Good-by."

"Until to-morrow," he said, as he turned away.

CHAPTER VI.

A DINNER AT THE MANOR.

It was the evening of the dinner given in honor of the naval officers, and even as the old Dutch clock in the corner of the manor hall struck the hour of seven, Farr was shaking hands with Mrs. Dennis.

"I am so sorry," she said to him with a sweet smile, "that I shall be obliged to absent myself from the dinner table to-night, but my strength is not very great and I dare not overtax it. My niece Helen," with a proud accent, which was not lost upon Farr, "has taken my place for so long that I feel no hesitation in leaving everything in her hands."

"Oh, Auntie," cried Helen, with shy deprecation, "Mr. Farr will begin to think me that most tiresome of all things, a paragon of household virtue."

Farr made a gesture of dissent, and then as Clifford Archer presented himself, he turned and followed Helen with admiring eyes. Very fair and womanly she seemed to him, in her gown of pale lavender crepe, moving about among her guests, greeting one and all with gentle courtesy.

His gaze wandered on to where, in a further corner of the drawing-room, Nathalie was keeping up a merry chatter with Wendell Churchill. In spite of her eighteen years, she looked a very child to-night, in her white mulle gown, with a broad white sash around her waist, and one red rose in her brown hair. A spoiled child, too, she undeniably was; unused to restraint, somewhat willful and quick-tempered, but with a heart so true and generous that one could always trust this small maiden and know that the good would predominate.

Eleanor Hill, standing very erect, her slender figure clad in a severely simple gown of India silk, her hair brushed straight from her fair face, her blue eyes alight with intelligence, her sensitive mouth revealing every passing shade of feeling, held his attention for a moment, for there was something patrician in the girl's mien and bearing which greatly charmed him.

Involuntarily Farr smiled as he caught sight of Nan's jolly face beaming with an unending fund of good humor, and he was man enough of the world for one glance at dainty Mollie Andrews to suffice to tell him that she was an adept in the truly feminine art of dressing, for her white gown, covered with lace and embroidery, was made in a mysterious Parisian fashion, not easily imitated.

What an arrant little flirt was dark-eyed Emily Varian. The smile that Nan had evoked deepened as Farr noted the rapt expression on Dudley's face as he bent over her. Her yellow gown, while not as modish as Eleanor's and Mollie's, nor as artistic as the Lawrence girls', yet showed a fine sense of color, and lighted up her pretty, piquant face, which was surmounted by a smooth coil of hair the color of a raven's wing.

They were an unusually lovely group of girls, and, beyond this, unusually pure-hearted and intelligent. Farr appreciated this the more keenly, perhaps, in that he had seen much of the world in his thirty years of life. Sometimes the old ideals of his boyhood had suffered sadly; but his faith in the gentler sex was too deep-rooted to be easily dispelled, and now all that was noblest and most chivalrous in his nature was awakened by the atmosphere of honesty and sweetness surrounding him.

He was brought back to the starting-point of his observations by Helen's voice saying, apologetically:

"I am so sorry my sister is so late," and even as she spoke a little hand pushed the portières hastily aside, and Jean stood in the doorway.

She glanced impulsively across at Farr, and caught a wicked gleam from his eyes as he advanced to meet her.

"'Time, tide, and dinner at the manor wait for no man,'" he quoted maliciously.

"That is one advantage in being a woman," she promptly retorted.

She was radiant to-night in a gown of silver and blue. From under level brows her eyes shone like stars, and some slight inward tremor of excitement flushed her sweet face with unusual color. Her soft yellow hair was gathered up in a simple coil, little tendrils of it curling upon her forehead and on her neck.

"What a bonny little lass she is," thought Farr, surprised by the sudden feeling of tenderness which took possession of him.

Then dinner was announced, and, with a half cynical smile at his own susceptibility, he pulled himself together, and offered her his arm.

"Why, I am quite in the navy, am I not?" she asked archly, as she took her place between Farr and Dudley.

"You honor it," Farr returned.

Jean's brows contracted with a slight frown. "That savors of flattery, Mr. Farr."

"I especially dislike your accusation, Miss Lawrence."

"Then I must be more careful not to run counter to your prejudices hereafter."

"If you would be so good," he said to her dryly; then their eyes met, and they both laughed light-heartedly.

"I hope you enjoyed the sail the other day. I meant to ask you about it yesterday afternoon."

"Thoroughly. Your songs were particularly delightful."

Jean blushed, and answered in some confusion:

"They were very foolish. I really hope you will forgive our absurd behavior."

"Charming folly needs no apology," Jean found the glance he gave her a trifle disconcerting.

"But pray, Mr. Farr, do not——" she began, and hesitated.

"Do not what?" he interrogated, with a faint show of eagerness.

"Do not allow your soup to grow cold," she finished, with a merry glance at him from under her long lashes.

"While you are in Hetherford," spoke Nathalie across the table to Dudley, "you should make a point of going up to the cemetery. There are some epitaphs there a hundred years old, and they are so funny."

"So Andrews was telling us. Speaking of epitaphs I was very much amused by one I saw in a magazine the other day. Let me see. How was it?

"Here is a good one," cried Dick, when he had partially recovered from his ebullition of mirth:

Helen shook her head at Dick in gentle protest.

"What will Captain and Mrs. Dodd think of us." she said.

"Suppose I should recall one to you all," suggested the captain, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"Please do," they cried in chorus.

"Splendid," exclaimed Nathalie, with enthusiasm. "Mr. Dudley and Dick are quite in the background."

"Dick saw his in that charming novel 'Comin' thro' the Rye.'"

"Guess I did, Nancy. By Jove, girls," he whispered mischievously, "you are all stunning to-night," and he drew himself up with an air of pride and satisfaction.

"You shine in a kind of reflected glory; don't you, Dick?" laughed Nathalie.

After dinner they gathered about the great wood fire burning cheerily in the drawing-room. The evening had grown suddenly chill. The wind had veered to the southeast, and the strong sea breeze lowered the temperature by many degrees; a not uncommon occurrence in our American summers.

Helen seated herself at the open piano, and her music did much to enhance the charm of the hour. She felt a bit sad to-night and something of her feeling crept into her music, as she drifted into a plaintive melody, with an oft-recurring refrain almost like a spoken regret. As her eyes wandered about the fire-lit room, with its far-off corners half in mystic shadow, there were awakened within her memories of happy childhood days when the love of her father and mother had been the sunshine of their home. Interwoven with these thoughts came the recollection of one who, in those days, had been near at hand and who was now far away, in strange lands, separated from her by more than the mere expanse of restless waters.

She sighed a little and, bringing her music abruptly to an end, rose and crossed the room. After a few words of courteous explanation to Mrs. Dodd, she ran away upstairs to assure herself that the children were safely in bed.

Just as she was passing through the doorway, she caught a glimpse of Jean, who, with earnest upturned face, was talking interestedly with Farr, and something she saw in her sister's blue eyes made her start. What was there in that upturned face, in those eyes, which made Helen feel so strangely, as if something were going to happen?

And Eleanor Hill chatting gayly with Cliff Archer found her thoughts traveling in much the same direction.

In all these summers they had been a very happy little colony of girls, and they had entered into a sort of compact in true girl fashion that no lover should be allowed in their midst, to break the spell. Helen had been engaged, but that relation had existed previous to the making of the bond, and she had been so little absorbed that no one had thought much about it. One other exception had to be made, for there was no use in trying to hold Emily strictly to any such agreement, for flirt she would whenever the opportunity offered. However, her digressions had been few and far between, for Cliff Archer and Dick were almost the only men who came to Hetherford, and they were so like brothers to her that a sentimental attitude toward either of them would have seemed supremely ridiculous.

So this summer had come around as many others had before, and already a new element had entered into their midst, and that naughty little Nathalie was at the root of the matter; for ever since one bright day in May, when the Sylph had come sailing along these pleasant waters and Wendell Churchill had called at the manor to pay his respects, the old order of things had been changed. Until that day the Sylph had been better known to Hetherford than her good-looking owner; for rarely had he cast anchor in the harbor without having aboard his yacht a party of gay and fashionable people, who urgently claimed his whole attention. But now he no longer brought strangers to Hetherford, and when, as now and then occurred, he was obliged to absent himself for a few days, the Sylph lay at the disposal of the girls. And all this that little minx Nathalie had brought about, laughing while she disclaimed emphatically any disloyalty to the vows of their bond.

The worst of it was the mischief was spreading, and Eleanor's eyes falling just then upon Jean, she experienced a sense of keen annoyance, for warm-hearted Jean had been the most whole-souled, the most valiant of them all. It was a great pity that the Vortex had been stationed here, and doubly a pity that there was no immediate prospect of her departure. It would not do to be introducing all sorts of folly into their circle.

Eleanor had quite worked herself up to a pitch of righteous indignation when, on surveying the ground that had brought her to this point, she became uncomfortably conscious of some slight changes within herself; for here before her, looking into her eyes and saying all sorts of pretty things, which of course were nonsensical, was the "fatal beauty" whom she had always looked upon as a boy. Half-vexed, half-amused she rose to go, and when Cliff, after helping her with her coat, gently pressed her hand, she felt immensely like boxing his ears. It was idiotic and sentimental, his looking at her in that way, and there was no occasion whatever for his saying good-night like a lover in a play.

There was quite a little excitement and bustle of departure in the hall-way, as coats and cloaks were sought for, found, and donned. Jean stood by the large open fireplace, where a log lay smoldering, its red ashes still giving out a grateful heat, and at her side was Farr, hat in hand, a light summer overcoat on his arm. He spoke a few words to her as he took her hand in parting, and she looked up at him smiling and defiant. The girl's blue eyes were dark with unwonted excitement, her cheeks flushed with bright color, and Eleanor noted all this and found her impressions of the evening deepened.

When the last guest had gone, Helen dropped down on the foot of the stairs.

"Oh, how tired I am," she exclaimed. "Do put out the lamps in the drawing-room, Nat, like a good girl." Then she rose to her feet with a little sigh of weariness. "I think I am sleepy too," she said.

"I wish I were," spoke Jean from before the fire, her whole expression eminently wide-awake.

"Come to bed, Jeanie," laughed Helen, "and court sleep. Perhaps it will come to you if you do."

Jean paused a moment by the hall table to select one from out of the mass of books and magazines collected there, and then followed Helen up the stairs.

When she had reached her room she threw herself down in an easy-chair and opened her book.

"You won't mind if I read for a while, will you, Nat? There is no use of thinking of going to sleep yet."

Nathalie whistled very softly, at which Jean glanced swiftly up at her.

"Eh, Jean? Love at first sight?"

Jean blushed to the roots of her pretty hair, and there was an angry light in her eyes.

"I wouldn't be a goose if I were you, Nathalie," she said scornfully.

CHAPTER VII.

A WALK IN THE SHRUBBERY.

It was Sunday and Nan and Emily were sitting together on the vine-covered porch of the parsonage, trying to while away the long hour between church time and the midday dinner.

Nan gave a prodigious yawn, and stretched herself out in the comfortable steamer chair.

"Oh, dearie me," she sighed, "I wonder if it would be a crime for me to admit how bored I was in church this morning."

"Well, I don't think it would be in very good taste, considering your father preached," replied Emily severely.

"I can't help it if he did. I was tired, and moreover," crossly, "I am always bored."

Emily raised her eyebrows.

"I am afraid, Nan, your soul longs for Gregorian chants and tapering candles."

"Of course it does; and acolytes, incense, and embroidered altar cloths. Yes, I admit it frankly, I should have belonged to The Church," she ended, with great emphasis.

"I know, Em," she continued, after waiting a moment to observe the effect of her last words, "you will think it absurd; but, I tell you, I really envy the Lawrence girls. To think that they attend that dear, delightful Episcopal chapel, while I——" and the sentence ended with a laugh. "Why, Em, of course you won't sympathize with me, but I do think it is bad form."

Emily looked really shocked.

"Nan Birdsall, I am ashamed of you. What would uncle think of you?"

"Well," replied Nan, with a perverse expression on her face, "I don't intend that the ministers' sons shall have it all their own way. I have just as good a right to live up to the old saying as any of them."

Emily would not stay to listen to another word, and with a great air of dignity, she arose, and swept into the house. Very soon the soft tinkling of a bell told Nan that the noonday meal was ready. Old Mr. Birdsall stood at one end of the table, his hands folded on the back of the chair before him, waiting for Emily and Nan to appear. When they were come the long grace was spoken slowly and impressively, and no one watching Nan's demure face would have guessed at her outbreak of the morning.

They were a somewhat incongruous trio, and what little conversation there was consisted chiefly of good-natured banter of Emily by the irrepressible Nan, to which Mr. Birdsall listened somewhat abstractedly.

The dinner hour had not as yet assumed a position of importance to either of the girls, and as soon as possible they pushed back their chairs, and once more sought the shady porch. Emily gave one furtive glance over her shoulder to assure herself that her uncle was not following them, and then picked up a novel from a neighboring table, and opened it with a great show of interest. Nan watched the bit of deception, and a smile spread itself over her face.

"Puss," she cried, stooping to lift up a little white kitten which was brushing against her skirt, "it is now our turn to be shocked and horrified."

Her remark being received in contemptuous silence, for a while she played languidly with the little creature in her lap, then her hand dropped at her side, her head fell back against the cushions, and Nan was fast asleep. The air was heavy and drowsy, all about the insects hummed so lazily and the very atmosphere lulled one into forgetfulness. By and by, the crunching sound of footsteps on the graveled path roused Nan to sudden consciousness.

"Oh! dear, Nan," Emily was whispering in a tone of suppressed excitement, "please wake up. Here comes Mr. Dudley. I forgot to tell you that I was going for a walk with him."

"That's all right," Nan interrupted her sleepily. "I am going in so he won't see me," and lifting herself lazily from her chair, she slipped into the house through one of the French windows.

Within the house there reigned the solemn stillness of the Day of Rest. The door of the study stood part-way open, and Nan could see her father lying on his lounge, his white head shining like silver against the dark leather of the cushion. She stole in on tip-toe to avoid awakening him, caught up a bright-colored afghan and threw it over him.

"How sweet he looks," she thought with great tenderness, as she stooped and gently kissed him. She paused a moment by the large writing table to find, amid a litter of papers, an old hymnbook, shabby from long usage, and opening it marked the hymns selected for the evening service. Then she passed out and closed the door softly behind her. She waited a few moments until she heard Emily and Mr. Dudley leave the porch, then put on her hat, and started across the lawn to the manor. Coming out upon the drive-way she met Helen walking briskly along.

"Well," she cried, "where are you going?"

"To evening prayers, Nancy. Won't you come with me?"

"Yes, indeed I will. I thought you never left the children Sunday afternoon."

"I don't usually, but to-day I felt just in the humor for church."

There was a note of sadness in Helen's tone, which ordinarily Nan would have readily detected, but to-day the girl was possessed by a sense of personal dissatisfaction and restlessness, and so, absorbed in her own mood, this was lost upon her. There was a pause of brief duration, then Helen drew a long breath, and resumed more lightly:

"How sweet and sunny it is, isn't it, Nan? I love these first early days of summer when everything is so fresh and green. The country doesn't begin to look so lovely later in the season."

"I suppose so," returned Nan laconically. "I am such a country girl that I don't half see the beauties about me. When you are so used to things I don't think you are apt to be so keenly alive to them."

"I dare say that is true; you see I go away just enough to appreciate this dear place when I come back to it."

"While I," grumbled Nan, "have never been away from Hetherford but two or three times in my whole life. One year is just like another. There is always father, deeply interested in church matters, and looking upon me as an enigma; and cross old Bridget who runs the house and disapproves of me. I often long to dance a jig before father and to throw something at Bridget's head, just to relieve the monotony."

Helen laughed softly as Nan's grievances multiplied, knowing full well how it diminishes one's annoyances to be able to give voice to them.

"Then Emily comes," continued Nan, with a scowl, "and tells me that my clothes are awful and that I look like a fright, and wonders why I can't cultivate a slight interest in men. I tell her," laughing dubiously, "that I would if I found them eager to do their share."

"You silly child," and Helen squeezed Nan's arm affectionately. "I won't have you depreciate your dear self."

But Nan was not to be so easily diverted.

"I do hope that some day I shall see something of the world," she replied. "I would like to lead an exciting life, full of incident and adventure, and oh, dear me, who could lead one less so. I wish something new and interesting would happen."

"O Nancy," Helen said to her gravely, "don't be so anxious to have things happen. It is so much better when they don't, little girl."

Nan looked up at Helen and felt rebuked for her egotism, as she saw the shadow clouding her friend's pale face.

Dissimilar as these two girls were in character, a very warm friendship existed between them. Helen dearly loved Nan for her ready wit, easy-going ways, warm heart, and sunny nature, and Nan simply adored Helen, looking up to her with the greatest admiration, and deferring readily to her judgment in all things. There was a very romantic side to Nan's nature, hidden away though it was, beneath so much nonsense and jollity, and Helen's love affair and its sad ending had touched her keenly. She thoroughly liked Guy, and he, on his part, had always shown a preference for her above the other girls. Perhaps he had guessed at her strong love for Helen and partisanship for himself, for to her alone had he spoken of Helen on his return from that last unhappy interview. His words had been few, but Nan had seen the real grief in his honest eyes, and her heart had ached for him. She made a pretty shrewd guess at the real state of affairs, and she found her firm belief, that Helen's heart belonged to Guy and that it would all come out right in the end, greatly strengthened by her friend's present unhappiness and discontent. To-day she was full of sympathy for Helen, but she respected her reticence too deeply to broach the subject, so she consoled herself with the thought that this mood scored a point in Guy's favor. Her reverie was broken in upon by Helen's voice saying gently:

"I consider it a most fortunate thing, Nan, that I am carrying you off to church; I am sure the service will do us both good."

"Well, there's room for improvement in me," laughed Nan. "You should have seen Em's face this morning when I told her that my one ambition was to imitate the proverbial minister's son."

"Nancy, I am ashamed of you," Helen remonstrated, with a reluctant smile. "Come, be a good girl, for we are just at the church door. Let us give our hearts and minds to the service," she added with sweet gravity, "and we will see how much peace will come to us."

"I will, dear," Nan whispered as they started up the aisle to the Lawrences' pew.

The rector of St. Andrew's leaned somewhat toward ritualism, and no form nor observance that to his mind lent beauty and solemnity to the service was omitted. As the girls took their places the solemn chords of the Stabat Mater inclined their hearts to reverential prayer. In a moment more the doors of the vestry swung open and the organ took up the sweet strains of the soul-inspiring hymn, "Hark, hark, my soul." Slowly the choristers filed by; first the cross-bearer, his young face full of dignity, then the singers, two by two, and as their numbers swelled their fresh young voices filled the church.

The grace and beauty of the Episcopal form of worship appealed to Nan. The rhythmic lines of the confessional, "We have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep," etc., moved her to a heartfelt penitence for her shortcomings, and inspired her with an earnest desire to live more nobly and unselfishly. One by one her petty trials took their flight, and only a sense of great peace remained. When the benediction had been pronounced and the girls had left the church, they were both somewhat subdued and silent. The slanting rays of the sun fell softly athwart the quaint old churchyard, and on the faintly stirring breeze was borne the sweet perfume of roses and honeysuckle which grew in such profusion against the low stone wall. Passing through the gateway they strolled side by side along the road.

"I wish I could always attend St. Andrew's," mused Nan, slipping her hand within Helen's arm. "I really believe I would be a better girl. The ritual impresses me so deeply, and seems to bring religion home to me in such a convincing sort of way."

"I don't think that is at all unnatural; but as time goes on, Nan, I believe you will find that your love for outside things will diminish, in proportion as your dependence upon what is deep and vital grows."

"I would not fret about it in the least if it were not for my dear father," and Nan's face grew tender as she spoke, "but I know that this disposition of mine toward forms and symbols is a source of sorrow to him. He would have me a strong adherent to the old school of Presbyterianism, and he feels that my tendencies are leading me rapidly along the highway to Rome," and Nan's puzzled eyes met Helen's with a frank appeal for advice.

Helen was silent for a moment, and then spoke slowly and meditatively.

"Of course, Nan, each person has to decide such a question for himself, but it seems to me that when two people love each other dearly yet differ in their views, each should be willing to make some concessions and thus grow more generous and lenient with each other—Love is such a great power."

"Indeed it is," cried big-hearted Nan, "and I know that the larger share of yielding should be mine, for dear father has grown old in his opinions, and it must be very hard for him to have me branch out for myself."

They had reached a turn in the road where their paths diverged, and Nan asked:

"You will come over and sing hymns this evening, won't you, Helen?"

"Certainly. Are they coming over from the inn?"

"I suppose so," and then with a friendly nod each went on her way.

It was close upon eight o'clock that evening when Helen and Nathalie started out for the parsonage. The lovely twilight hour was almost over. High in the heavens rode the crescent moon, and, as the slowly fading daylight vanished, its white light penetrated the soft gloom which lay like a shroud over the manor park, and trees and lawns and winding paths came suddenly to life, as by the touch of a fairy wand. A sighing breeze stirred the leaves, from a fountain near at hand came the soft splash of falling waters and the night air vibrated gently with the myriad sounds of insect life.

There was a rush and a scamper, and around the corner of the house the children raced and threw themselves upon Helen, with a shout of delight.

"You naughty youngsters," chided their sister gently. "You ought to be in bed this minute, everyone of you."

"We's going right off," cried Gladys breathlessly. "On'y we wants to be kissed first."

Helen stooped down to fulfill their clamorous demand.

"Now, be off," she laughed, straightening herself up and shaking a mildly reproachful finger at them, "and don't forget to go in and say good-night to Auntie," and then she and Nathalie proceeded leisurely on their way.

They found the vine-covered porch of the parsonage quite overflowing with people. Wendell Churchill and Farr stepped hastily forward, and, after an interchange of cordial greetings, found seats for them.

"How late you are," called Nan, from somewhere in the background. "I thought you were not coming."

Helen left apologies and explanations to Nathalie, and turned to answer an inquiry from Farr in regard to Jean.

"I am sorry to say she is deep in a book," she said, looking up at him with a smile, "and we could not persuade her to leave it. However, she promised to follow us shortly."

"And does Miss Jean always keep her promises?" Farr asked lightly.

"I think she does," Helen rejoined, meeting his eyes for an instant.

"Come, Helen. Start some of the good old hymns."

At Mollie's suggestion Helen's clear soprano took up the refrain of "Lead, kindly light," and the others joined in heartily. From long practice their voices blended beautifully.

They had been singing for nearly an hour when Farr rose quietly to his feet.

"Miss Lawrence," he said, bending over her chair, "don't you think Miss Jean should be brought to a realizing sense of her delinquencies and coerced into making some reparation?"

"Indeed, I do," she assented with a frank laugh, "but what are we going to do about it?"

"I don't think my desertion would be noticed if I should go in search of her," Farr suggested, lowering his voice. "Do you?"

Helen gave him a swift glance of amusement.

"'I would not hear thine enemy say so.' But go and see what your persuasive powers can do."

"You have put me on my mettle now," he rejoined, as he stepped over the low railing and dropped noiselessly on to the grass below, and it was with a sense of amusement that he recognized his own impatience and eagerness as he set out for the manor.

He paused to light a cigarette, then strode on over the soft turf, revolving many and varied thoughts in his mind. The brightness died out of his eyes, and the lines of the mouth were stern and compressed, for to-night the past with its perplexities and disappointments rose vividly before him. In his thirty years of life fortune had dealt him some severe blows and had set him adrift with more doubts than beliefs, more cynicism than sentiment. His was a very reserved and sensitive temperament, and under the garb of laziness and indifference his troubles were jealously hidden from curious eyes. The man's best self lay dormant, and some influence was sorely needed to rouse him to the necessity of facing his difficulties and conquering them before they should conquer him.

He had left the hedge behind him, and, as he came out on the drive-way, a gleam of light from the manor house shot out through the trees and brightened his path. Involuntarily he started, and a vision of Jean Lawrence's face came between his mind and all painful memories and robbed them of their sting.

Reaching the veranda steps, he threw away his cigarette, mounted them and crossed to where the outer door stood hospitably open, revealing the wide hall within, its shadowy recesses softly penetrated by the light from a quaint lamp swung from the low, studded ceiling. He lifted the hand knocker, and let it fall, then pushing his hat back on his head, stared meditatively before him, while waiting for a response to his summons. Not a sound broke the stillness, and at length he took his hat in his hand and stepped across the threshold, and made his way to the entrance of the drawing-room, across which the portières were partly drawn. His footfalls on the soft rugs scarce heralded his approach. The scene which met his eyes was indeed a pretty one, and for a brief space he stood motionless.

On a low divan in a far corner of the room, Jean had thrown herself with unconscious grace of pose. The warm coloring of the Oriental rug and bright-colored cushions made a charming background for the slender white-clad figure. A tall lamp shed a bright light across the open page of her book, on which her eyes were riveted. Her face was flushed with interest, her soft hair in fine disorder. Farr noted everything, from the golden head, resting upon the silken cushions, to the dainty slippered foot, just peeping beneath the hem of her gown.

A slight movement on his part discovered him to Jean, and she started up in dismay.

"Well, Mr. Farr, you did give me a fright," she cried, laughing confusedly, for his steady gaze disconcerted her somewhat. "I should think you would be ashamed of yourself for having startled me so."

"I am," recovering himself with a slight effort, for the swift change that had swept over Jean's expressive face at his unexpected appearance had set his heart to beating with unwonted emotion. "You will forgive me, will you not?" he finished, as he stood at her side and looked penitently down at her.

"Why, yes, but I don't advise your making a practice of strolling into people's houses, and appearing suddenly in their drawing-rooms; you might be mistaken for a burglar, and I have heard," with a malicious little laugh, "that it is unpleasant to be shot."

"Oh, come now, Miss Jean, you are very unfair to me; if you only knew the real facts of the case."

But Jean was still a little resentful, for she felt that she had been taken at a disadvantage.

"Really?" she answered incredulously, with a mischievous shrug of the shoulders.

"Yes, very," he protested, with a glance of amusement into her upraised eyes. "I did everything I could to gain admission in the regulation way, but was quite unsuccessful."

"What a shame," she said, interrupting him with softened voice. "I suppose the maids were all out in the garden for a stroll this fine night, and I was so absorbed in my book that I didn't hear the knocker."

"And then," he resumed, with a valiant disregard of the truth, "I came in making as much ado as I conveniently could, without calling out or overturning the furniture."

"Under the circumstances I see that you must be forgiven. Won't you be seated, Mr. Farr? I don't know what I have been thinking of, to allow you to remain standing all this while."

"Thank you, no. On the other hand, I want to persuade you to arise."

"Why?"

"Because I am here on a mission. I have come to reproach you for not keeping your promise to join us at the parsonage."

"And to whom am I indebted for this kind and flattering interest?"

"None other than myself."

"Oh, you are too good," she cried laughingly, springing to her feet, and making him a sweeping obeisance.

"If that is your honest opinion, Miss Jean, suppose you prove it by going back with me."

"I can't be a traitor to my words," and she tossed her book on to the table, and preceded him out into the hall-way.

"Is it cool enough for a wrap?"

Farr surveyed her muslin gown with a critical eye.

"Indeed, it is."

"All right," she yielded carelessly, "but I never take cold."

She picked up a coat from the rack, and Farr helped her on with it, and then they wandered out into the night.

"Is it not delicious?" Jean sighed, as they sauntered leisurely along.

"It seems so to me," he returned, with a glance into the girl's eyes.

"Miss Jean," he began, after a brief silence, "Did you not tell me once that there was a pretty walk through the shrubbery?"