at made her seem
still taller than she was brushing and braiding the luxuriant tresses
that gave under the light every tint and reflection of which gold is
capable. The pink and pearl of the round arm as the loose sleeve would
slip to the elbow, the poise of the proud head, the full white column
of the neck, the soft curve of cheek and chin,--all this delighted her
as it would have delighted a lover. But with all her light-headedness,
there was enough of discretion, or perhaps of innate New England
reserve, to keep her from ever expressing to Alice her pleasure in her
beauty. So the wholesome-minded girl never imagined the admiration of
which she was the object, and thought that her mother only liked to
chat a little before sleeping. They talked of trivial matters, of the
tea at Mrs. Hyson's, of Formosa Hyson's purple dress which made her
sallower than ever, of rain and fair weather.

"I think," said Mrs. Bekling, "that Phrasy Dallas gets more and more
stylish every day. I don't wonder at Arthur Farnham's devotion. That
would make an excellent match--they are both so dreadfully clever. By
the way, he has not been here this week. And I declare! I don't believe
you have ever written him that note of thanks."

"No," said Alice, smiling--she had schooled herself by this time to
speak of him carelessly. "I was too much frightened to thank him on the
spot, and now it would be ancient history. We must save our thanks till
we see him."

"I want to see him about other things. You must write and ask him to
dinner to-morrow or next day."

"Don't you think he would like it better if you would write?"

"There you are again--as if it mattered. Write that 'Mamma bids me.'
There, your hair is braided. Write the note now, and I will send it
over in the morning before he gets away."

Alice rose and walked to her escritoire, her long robe trailing, her
thick braids hanging almost to the floor, her fair cheek touched with a
delicate spot of color at the thought of writing a formal note to the
man she worshipped. She took a pen and wrote "My dear Mr. Farnham," and
the conventional address made her heart flutter and her eyes grow dim.
While she was writing, she heard her mother say:

"What a joke!"

She looked up, and saw that Mrs. Belding, having pushed open the
shutters, had picked up her opera-glass and was looking through it at
something out of the window.

"Do you know, Alice," she said, laughing, "since that ailantus tree wa