nders sometimes.

"Oh, we are old friends," she said carelessly.

Mr. Meigs tried to mend matters by saying that he had promised Mrs.
Benson, you know, to look after her. There was that in Irene's manner
that said she was not to be appropriated without leave. But the
consciousness that her look betrayed this softened her at once towards
Mr. Meigs, and decidedly improved his chances for the evening. The
philosopher says that women are cruelest when they set out to be kind.

The supper was an 'al fresco' affair, the party being seated about on
rocks and logs and shawls spread upon the grass near the farmer's house.
The scene was a very pretty one, at least the artist thought so, and
Miss Lamont said it was lovely, and the Ashley girls declared it was
just divine. There was no reason why King should not enjoy the chaff and
merriment and the sunset light which touched the group, except that
the one woman he cared to serve was enveloped in the attentions of
Mr. Meigs. The drive home in the moonlight was the best part of the
excursion, or it would have been if there had not been a general change
of seats ordered, altogether, as Mr. King thought, for the accommodation
of the Boston man. It nettled him that Irene let herself fall to the
escort of Mr. Meigs, for women can always arrange these things if they
choose, and he had only a melancholy satisfaction in the college songs
and conundrums that enlivened the festive buckboard in which he was a
passenger. Not that he did not join in the hilarity, but it seemed only
a poor imitation of pleasure. Alas, that the tone of one woman's voice,
the touch of her hand, the glance of her eye, should outweigh the world!

Somehow, with all the opportunities, the suit of our friend did not
advance beyond a certain point. Irene was always cordial, always
friendly, but he tried in vain to ascertain whether the middle-aged man
from Boston had touched her imagination. There was a boating party the
next evening in Frenchman's Bay, and King had the pleasure of pulling
Miss Benson and Miss Lamont out seaward under the dark, frowning cliffs
until they felt the ocean swell, and then of making the circuit of
Porcupine Island. It was an enchanting night, full of mystery. The rock
face of the Porcupine glistened white in the moonlight as if it were
encrusted with salt, the waves beat in a continuous roar against its
base, which is honeycombed by the action of the water, and when the boat
glided into i