cious, she."

"You might not notice that except in contrast with the new Mrs.
Kendrick. There's the real thing, yes? Rich knew what he was doing when
he picked her out."

"Undoubtedly he did. The whole family's pretty fine--not the usual sort.
Watch Mrs. Clifford Cartwright. Even she's impressed. Odd, eh?--with all
the country cousins about, too."

"I know. It's in the air. And of course everybody knows the family blood
is of the bluest. Unostentatious but sure of itself. The Cartwrights
couldn't get that air, not in a thousand years."

"Rich himself has it, though--and the grandfather."

"True enough. I'm wondering which class we belong in!"

The two laughed and moved closer. Neither could afford to miss a chance
of observing their old friend under these new conditions, for he had
been a subject of their speculations ever since the change in him had
begun. And though they had deplored the loss of him from their favourite
haunts, they had been some time since forced to admit that he had never
been so well worth knowing as now that he was virtually lost to them.

"Oh, Robby, darling--I can never, never let you go!"

So softly wailed Ruth, her slim young form clinging to her sister's,
regardless of her bridesmaid's crushed finery, daintily cherished till
this moment. Over her head Roberta's eyes looked into her mother's.
There were no tears in the fine eyes which met hers, but somehow Roberta
knew that Ruth's heartache was a tiny pain beside that other's.

Richard, looking on, standing ready to take his bride away, wondered
once more within himself how he could have the heart to do it. But it
was done, and he and Roberta were off together down the steps; and he
was putting her into Mr. Kendrick's closed car; and she was leaning past
him to wave and wave again at the dear faces on the porch. Under the
lights here and there one stood out more clearly than the rest--Louis's,
flushed and virile; Rosamond's, lovely as a child's; old Mr. Kendrick's,
intent and grave, forgetting to smile. The father and the mother were in
the shadow--but little Gordon, Stephen's boy, made of himself a central
figure by running forward at the last to fling up a sturdy arm and cry:

"Good-bye, Auntie Wob--come back soon!"

It had been a white Christmas, and the snow had fallen lightly all day
long. It was coming faster now, and the wind was rising, to Richard's
intense satisfaction. He had been fairly praying for a gale, improbable
tho