pose when she was
in the immediate influence of the girl's genuine charm, and felt how
sincere she was. She even went so far as to wish to herself that Irene
had been born in her own world.

It was not at all unnatural that Irene should have been charmed by
Penelope, and that the latter should gradually have established an
influence over her. She was certainly kind-hearted, amiable, bright,
engaging. I think all those who have known her at Newport, or in her New
York home, regard her as one of the most charming women in the world.
Nor is she artificial, except as society requires her to be, and if she
regards the conventions of her own set as the most important things
in life, therein she does not differ from hosts of excellent wives
and mothers. Irene, being utterly candid herself, never suspected that
Penelope had at all exaggerated the family and social obstacles, nor did
it occur to her to doubt Penelope's affection for her. But she was not
blind. Being a woman, she comprehended perfectly the indirection of a
woman's approaches, and knew well enough by this time that Penelope,
whatever her personal leanings, must feel with her family in regard to
this engagement. And that she, who was apparently her friend, and who
had Stanhope's welfare so much at heart, did so feel was an added reason
why Irene was drifting towards a purpose of self-sacrifice. When she
was with Stanhope such a sacrifice seemed as impossible as it would be
cruel, but when she was with Mrs. Bartlett Glow, or alone, the subject
took another aspect. There is nothing more attractive to a noble woman
of tender heart than a duty the performance of which will make her
suffer. A false notion of duty has to account for much of the misery in
life.

It was under this impression that Irene passed the last evening at
Saratoga with Stanhope on the piazza of the hotel--an evening that
the latter long remembered as giving him the sweetest and the most
contradictory and perplexing glimpses of a woman's heart.

XIII. RICHFIELD SPRINGS, COOPERSTOWN

After weeks of the din of Strauss and Gungl, the soothing strains of
the Pastoral Symphony. Now no more the kettle-drum and the ceaseless
promenade in showy corridors, but the oaten pipe under the spreading
maples, the sheep feeding on the gentle hills of Otsego, the carnival of
the hop-pickers. It is time to be rural, to adore the country, to speak
about the dew on the upland pasture, and the exquisite view fro