Geoffrey's victory;

Everet Mapleson advanced toward the young couple with all the assurance imaginable.

He nodded indifferently to Geoffrey, simply saying, in a patronizing tone:

“How are you, Huntress?” and then turned to Gladys with his most alluring smile. “The signal for dancing has been given, Miss Huntress; may I have the pleasure of doing the opening set with you?”

Gladys’ cheeks were very red, for she resented his manner toward Geoffrey. What right had he to assume such insolent superiority over him, who she knew possessed by far the nobler nature of the two.

But she said politely, though with a little secret feeling of triumph in refusing him:

“You are a trifle late, Mr. Mapleson, as I have already promised the first dance; but if you will come to me later, you shall write your name upon my card.”

The young man frowned slightly, for he could never endure to have his wishes denied, but he was obliged to bow acquiescence, and turned away to seek a partner elsewhere.

But he managed to station himself where he could watch the young couple incessantly, and not a movement, not a smile or glance escaped him.

“They love each other,” he muttered, “at least he loves her, and it would not take much to make them acknowledged lovers. I shall be both watchful and diligent. I wish I knew the secret of the fellow’s life. It can’t be possible that he is anything to our family, and yet I am dusedly annoyed by the mystery.”

When he went later, to claim Gladys’ promise to dance with him, he exerted himself more than he had ever done to be entertaining and agreeable.

He told her about his Southern home, and the life he led when there. He described the luxuriant beauty which surrounded “Vue de l’Eau,” his father’s estate, and so called from the broad, sweeping view which they had of the beautiful James River, which lay right beneath them. He told her something of his courtly father and his stately, beautiful mother, and was really eloquent in his description of the spot that had given him birth.

“I wish you could come to ‘Vue de l’Eau’ sometime, Miss Huntress; I am sure you would agree with me that there is nothing finer in the way of scenery, even on your far-famed Hudson,” he said, in conclusion.

“Thank you, Mr. Mapleson; your descriptions are surely very enticing,” Gladys replied, with a smile. “I suppose your parents are both natives of the South?”

“Yes, they were both born in Richmond, and my father was a colonel in the Confederate army at the time of our civil war; but, as it happened, his estate was not harmed, and it has since increased greatly in beauty and value.”

“Do you remember much about the war?” Gladys inquired.

“No, I knew very little about it at the time, of course, I was very young—only about eight years of age—and besides, my father sent my mother and me abroad, where we remained until the war was over.”

“I suppose some of your people still feel antagonistic toward us Northerners?” Gladys remarked.

“I presume there is a feeling of bitterness to some extent among the veterans, but, as to the generation that has been growing up since, I think we all feel that we are one nation, and our interests are with and for the Union. But if I had been ever so bitter toward Northern people, that feeling could not have possibly continued to exist after my present experience with them,” and Everet Mapleson’s glance told the young girl that for her sake alone he would have been willing to waive all past grievances, however aggravating.

Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes drooped.

“It is better to put aside all bitterness—the war was a terrible thing, and there were mistakes on both sides, and now that peace has been restored, it is far better to let by-gones be by-gones. Have your parents ever been North?”

Gladys tried to speak in a general and unconscious way, but it was very hard with those admiring eyes fixed so earnestly upon her.

“No; they have been in Europe, and my father has been on the Pacific coast several times, but they have yet to visit this portion of the country.”

“Without doubt, then, they will improve the opportunity to do so when you leave college. It would be natural for them to desire to be present when you take your honors.”

“Those will be very few, I fear,” young Mapleson replied, with a flush. “I am not a good student.”

He did not love study, although he was quick to learn, and brilliant in recitation, when he chose to apply himself.

“I do not believe you really mean that,” Gladys said.

She could not believe that anybody could be a poor student who so closely resembled Geoffrey, who excelled. She imagined that he must be like him mentally as well as physically.

“Do you think it pays to get a reputation for good scholarship?” he asked.

“Perhaps not the reputation alone, but the knowledge pays. If I was a college boy I believe I should strive to attain the top round of the ladder.”

“It is not every one who can do that.”

“True, but every one can at least try to excel, and even if one does not, he has the satisfaction of knowing that he has done his best.”

“Are you going to be first in your class at Vassar, Miss Huntress?” Everet Mapleson asked, studying her eager face earnestly.

Gladys flushed again, and laughed.

“I am doing my utmost, Mr. Mapleson, to come forth from my school an honor to my class; and Geoffrey is bending all his energies toward the same object; indeed, I surmise that he is trying to gain a year, by his being so zealous for study during the recesses.”

A startled look shot into Everet Mapleson’s eyes.

If Geoffrey Huntress did gain a year he would graduate at the same time with himself, and the thought was anything but pleasant to him.

“He will have to be very smart to do that,” he said, with a skeptical curve of his lips.

“Geoffrey is smart; he has achieved wonders during the last few years, and I predict for him a brilliant college career. I am very proud of him.”

The beautiful girl’s face glowed, and her eyes gleamed as she said this, while her glance rested more fondly than she was aware, on the manly form that was standing beside his hostess, quietly conversing with her while they watched the dancers.

Her companion was so nettled by this, that for a moment he could not control his voice to reply.

“I should judge that the young man must be a prodigy,” he said, at length, with a covert sneer.

Gladys lifted her eyes searchingly to his face.

His tone was not pleasant to her, but he looked as innocent as if he had spoken in all sincerity.

“Why!” she said, after a moment’s thought, “if Geoffrey does gain a year he will take his degree when you take yours!”

“Yes.”

A little ripple of roguish laughter issued from the fair girl’s red lips.

“Then let me warn you,” she said, with a merry glance, “to look out for your honors, Mr. Mapleson, for Geoffrey is bound to go to the front, and I have fully made up my mind to hear him deliver the valedictory at Yale two years hence.”

Again the young Southerner had to pause for self-control; it was very hard for him to conceal the rage that was well-nigh overmastering him.

But all at once he bent toward Gladys, and, speaking in a low, resolute tone, said:

“Miss Huntress, you have inspired me with an ambition which I never before possessed. I would give more than you can conceive to merit such praise from your lips as you have just bestowed upon another, and from this hour, my purpose shall be to ‘go to the front,’ as you have expressed it. I shall deliver the valedictory two years from next summer.”

Gladys laughed gleefully.

She never dreamed of the fierce enmity and jealousy that lay beneath all this, and she was delighted to think that she had aroused his desire to excel in his class.

“It will be a worthy contest,” she said; “and I honor you for your resolution. I shall watch the rivalry with a great deal of interest, I assure you.”

“Will you wear my colors if I succeed, Miss Huntress?” the young man asked, in a low, almost passionate tone.

“That depends——”

“Upon what?”

“Upon whether Geoffrey takes his degree at the same time; if he gains his year and leaves with your class, I think I shall have to be loyal to him, even though he should suffer defeat,” Gladys replied, though in her heart she felt sure that he would not fail to do himself honor.

“That is hardly fair,” urged her companion; “‘to the victor belongs the spoils,’ you know.”

“Yes; but you will have your own friends to rejoice with you, and I could not desert dear old Geoff, though he should fail a hundred times,” she returned, a tender glow overspreading her face.

“Happy Huntress!” sneered the exasperated young man, for a moment forgetting himself.

“Why, Mr. Mapleson, I hope you are not offended with me,” Gladys said, with surprise, and not once suspecting that this venom was aimed at the object of their conversation; then she added: “Perhaps, however, his colors and yours will be the same, and then I can honor you both.”

Everet Mapleson was glad that supper was announced just at that moment, which saved him the necessity of replying.

The mere thought of sharing any honors with his rival made him white with anger, and her praise of him had driven him nearly frantic.

He saw Geoffrey approaching them, and surmised that he contemplated taking Gladys in to supper.

He resolved that he should not; so, turning to her with a smile, as he laid her hand upon his arm, he remarked:

“That is no doubt a pleasing announcement to everybody. Shall we follow the hungry crowd?”

“Thanks; but I see Geoffrey coming for me; pray find some one else, Mr. Mapleson; I have already occupied more of your time and attention this evening than I ought,” the fair girl responded.

“I could not bestow it more acceptably to myself anywhere else,” he replied, in a low, earnest tone, and detaining the hand which she would have withdrawn from his arm.

At that instant Geoffrey bowed before them.

“Excuse me for interrupting your chat,” he said, courteously; “but are you ready to go into supper, Gladys?”

“Excuse me, Huntress,” young Mapleson interposed before Gladys could reply, and bestowing a haughty glance upon his rival, “but I must claim the privilege of taking Miss Huntress in by virtue of the old saw ‘prior tempore, prior jure’—‘first in time, first by right.’”

Geoffrey colored more at his tone and look than at his words, but returned, with a genial smile:

“That will apply to my case exactly, Mr. Mapleson, since I secured Miss Huntress’ promise, more than an hour ago, that she would give me the privilege you claim.”

“But possession is nine points in law. Miss Huntress,” said Everet, addressing Gladys, and ignoring Geoffrey entirely.

“Really, Mr. Mapleson, you will have to excuse me. I have given my promise, as Geoffrey says, and since he leaves for New Haven again to-morrow morning, I must say all I have to say to him to-night.”

Everet Mapleson instantly released her, with a low bow of acquiescence.

“Your wish is sufficient,” he said, with significant emphasis, and he turned abruptly away to seek some one else; but not before he had shot a revengeful glance at his successful rival.

“He shall have his pay some day,” he muttered, as he moved down the room; “he maddens me beyond all endurance with his assumption of affability and his high-bred civility. He goes back to New Haven to-morrow, does he? Well, I’ll improve the remainder of this recess to cultivate to the utmost my acquaintance with ma belle Gladys.”

He found a young lady to whom he had been introduced early in the evening, and solicited her companionship during supper, but he was careful to station himself where he could watch every look and movement of the girl whom he was fast learning to adore.

After supper Gladys and Geoffrey stole away to a quiet corner, where they could have a little confidential chat before they separated, for each had much to tell the other about school and various other matters.

Geoffrey had been much disturbed inwardly to see how devotedly attentive young Mapleson appeared to Gladys.

He did not bear him any ill-will on account of the hazing to which he had been subjected so long ago, but he instinctively felt that he could not be a very noble-minded man to allow himself to be so controlled by passion as he had been at that time, and Gladys was too precious a treasure to be willingly yielded to one unworthy of her.

He wondered what opinion she had formed of him, and he meant to find out before he left her; and after they had chatted awhile he asked, smilingly:

“Well, Gladys, what do you think of my double?”

“I think it the most remarkable resemblance in the world; but why have you never written us anything about him?” she asked.

“I have had so many other things to write and think about, that I suppose it escaped my memory; besides, I seldom meet Mapleson, as he is not in my class. I am very glad, though, that he does not belong in New York,” Geoffrey concluded, with a wistful glance at his companion.

“Why?”

“Because I fear you might often make the same mistake that you did the other day in the cafe, and—I think I should hardly like to share your favors with him.”

Gladys shot a quick, inquiring glance into the young man’s face, and saw it was clouded.

“Isn’t he nice, Geoff?”

“I have heard that he belongs to a good family, and feel that I have no right to say one word against him; still, where you are concerned, Gladys, I feel very jealous lest any ill should come to you,” he returned, earnestly.

“I think I could never again mistake him for you,” Gladys said, thoughtfully.

“What makes you think that?” was the eager query.

“There are certain expressions in your face that I do not find in his, and vice versa; while somehow a feeling of antagonism, a barrier, almost amounting to distrust, comes between us when I am with him. Perhaps it is because I do not know him as well as I know you; it would be natural to differently regard one who had always been like a brother,” Gladys replied, gravely.

A painful thrill shot through Geoffrey’s heart at those last words.

“Does she feel nothing but sisterly affection for me?” he thought; “and I love her—oh! not with a brother’s love; Heaven help me if I fail to win her by and by! She is dearer than my own life, and yet I dare not tell her so; I have no right to win the heart of the child of my benefactor until I can make a name and position worthy of her acceptance.”

But he allowed nothing of this conflict to appear. He changed the subject, and they chatted pleasantly of other matters until Mr. and Mrs. Huntress came to tell him that they were going home.

He then bade her good-night and good-by, and went away, loving her more fondly than ever, but with a heavy burden on his heart.