hness. The fancy that Alma Leighton came bitterly to regret
him, contributed to soothe and flatter him, and he was not sure that
Margaret. Vance did not suffer a like loss in him.

There had been times when, as he believed, that beautiful girl's high
thoughts had tended toward him; there had been looks, gestures, even
words, that had this effect to him, or that seemed to have had it; and
Beaton saw that he might easily construe Mrs. Horn's confidential appeal
to him to get Margaret interested in art again as something by no means
necessarily offensive, even though it had been made to him as to a
master of illusion. If Mrs. Horn had to choose between him and the life
of good works to which her niece was visibly abandoning herself, Beaton
could not doubt which she would choose; the only question was how real
the danger of a life of good works was.

As he thought of these two girls, one so charming and the other so
divine, it became indefinitely difficult to renounce them for Christine
Dryfoos, with her sultry temper and her earthbound ideals. Life had been
so flattering to Beaton hitherto that he could not believe them both
finally indifferent; and if they were not indifferent, perhaps he did
not wish either of them to be very definite. What he really longed for
was their sympathy; for a man who is able to walk round quite ruthlessly
on the feelings of others often has very tender feelings of his own,
easily lacerated, and eagerly responsive to the caresses of compassion.
In this frame Beaton determined to go that afternoon, though it was not
Mrs. Horn's day, and call upon her in the hope of possibly seeing Miss
Vance alone. As he continued in it, he took this for a sign and actually
went. It did not fall out at once as he wished, but he got Mrs. Horn
to talking again about her niece, and Mrs. Horn again regretted that
nothing could be done by the fine arts to reclaim Margaret from good
works.

"Is she at home? Will you let me see her?" asked Beacon, with something
of the scientific interest of a physician inquiring for a patient whose
symptoms have been rehearsed to him. He had not asked for her before.

"Yes, certainly," said Mrs. Horn, and she went herself to call Margaret,
and she did not return with her. The girl entered with the gentle grace
peculiar to her; and Beaton, bent as he was on his own consolation,
could not help being struck with the spiritual exaltation of her look.
At sight of her, the vague hope he