converted into satisfaction at the
success of her sister Mary. An astonishingly wealthy shooting tenant in
the neighborhood danced seven times with her at the County Ball, and
proposed next morning by letter. He would have been accepted by telegram
had Archibald of that ilk had his way, but fortunately the gentleman's
ardor had not cooled by the time the next post reached him. A week later
his prospective best man wriggled out of his duties by coming to an
arrangement with Mary's younger sister that the wedding should be a
double-barreled affair, with two brides and two grooms. As this second
suitor was very nearly as rich as the first, Ellen found her fate
alleviated by the entire and permanent removal of her parents'
displeasure. She became now a mere object of pity, mingled at times with
contempt for her folly in dooming herself to a sterile spinsterhood; for
it was clear that Frank and she could never hope to marry, however much
writing-paper they might waste.

Just as the world never plumbed the depths of dignity and purpose in
Woman till it saw her chained to a railing, clasping the hated constable
like a lover, a hoarse example to her sluggish sisters, so it can never
realize her capacity for foolishness till it has seen her waiting
through weary years, hoping against reason, the victim of illogical
constancy to a mere young man. Sweet and gracious Ellen Berstoun, so
slender and pretty and charming, wasting her fragrance in the old garden
and the dark pine-woods for the sake of certain passionate memories and
the most impractical of day-dreams, was a sight to make a philosopher
despair.

Undoubtedly Andrew's were the proper principles.

CHAPTER III

With the drawing in of dusk a thin mist stole up from the river and
stealthily crept through the streets and lanes of Chelsea. It was not
yet five o'clock, but on an afternoon in the depth of winter the little
touch of fog converted dusk to darkness. The mist was not thick, but
very cold and clammy, and in the zigzag lane the lamps were blurred and
the shadows deep. Two people left a bus in the King's Road and turned
down it. He was broad-shouldered, and swung along with a fine decided
stride: she was trim and erect, and very quietly clad; her face was
fresh and bright, a smile haunted her eyes, and her straight little nose
seemed to breathe independence.

"The air is beastly damp," said he. "I wish you'd let me bring you in a
cab."

"Nonsense, Lucas,