er own thoughts to wonder where the source of that comfortable
aroma oL tobacco lay--it was to her just a part of the atmosphere of
books and quiet and leather chairs which she always associated with her
memories of her father. Revelling in the sensation of being alone, as
she blissfully fancied herself to be, she wandered about looking at the
titles of the books, now and again taking down a volume and turning the
leaves. Here she chanced upon a delightful old edition of "Pickwick
Papers," bound in worn leather, there a copy of the "Vicar of
Wakefield," with yellowed pages, and quaint, old-fashioned print, and
the sight of these old friends, associated as they were with the
happiest and most tranquil hours of her life, soothed to a certain
extent her feelings which had been cruelly wounded by the conversation
she had overheard.

But she was still sore and angry. Still holding the "Vicar of
Wakefield" in her hand, she stood, staring absently into the fire.

"So that's what people will be saying about us--that we are pushing and
scheming, and--and trying to make friends just to use them for our
advantage," she thought bitterly, recalling Mrs. Porterbridge's
unfriendly little insinuation.

Sensitive and proud as she was, that unfinished remark, made in the
cold, hard tone of a woman who, judging the whole world by herself,
credited everyone alike with self-interested and worldly motives, had
inflicted a wound that would be long in healing. It was not indeed on
her own account that she resented it so bitterly, but because of her
mother and Alma, whose actions, she knew, could be so misinterpreted
and ascribed to quite false motives. She knew, too, less by experience
than by instinct, that beneath all the pleasures and gaiety which Alma
craved so eagerly, would flow that bitter undercurrent of cynical
comment made by people who had so long been self-seeking that they
could not believe in the artlessness of a young girl's simple thirst
for enjoyment.

Busy with these thoughts, a little strange and mature perhaps for her
age, she was quite unconscious of two interesting facts. First, that
from an armchair just beyond the radius of the lamplight, the source of
the cigarette smoke was regarding her with mingled astonishment and
approval, and, second, that she herself was making a very charming
picture as she stood in the deep, mellow glow of the firelight.

A small man, with a kind, whimsical, clever face, was looking