directly through the hall and up stairs, greatly to the young man's
astonishment.

He gave vent to a low whistle, and exclaimed, under his breath, as he
deposited his cane in the stand and drew off his gloves:

"Jove! I imagined her to be some high-toned caller, and she is only some
working girl. Really, though, she is as fine a specimen of young
womanhood as I have encountered in many a day, and I should like to see
more of her. Ah, Aunt Marg," he went on, as Mrs. Montague came sweeping
down the stairs, just then, in an elaborate dinner costume, "how fine
you look, and I'm on time, you perceive! How about the McKenzie reception
to-night?"

"We must go, of course," responded the lady, in a somewhat weary tone,
"for Mrs. McKenzie would be offended if we should remain away, though I
am really too tired after the Ashton ball last evening to go out again;
besides, I do not like to wear a dress that isn't properly finished; but
I shall have to, for the girls cannot possibly do all that needs to be
done."

"You are too particular, Aunt Marg. What if every seam isn't bound just
as you like it? Your general make-up is always superb. By the way, who
was that girl in black who just came in and went up stairs?" the young
man concluded, as if it had only just occurred to him to inquire
regarding her.

"Oh, that was Ruth Richards, my seamstress; she had just been out on an
errand," Mrs. Montague indifferently returned as they passed into the
drawing-room.

"Ruth Richards? Pretty name, isn't it?" her companion remarked, "and
the girl herself is a stunner--one does not often meet so lovely a
seamstress."

Mrs. Montague turned upon him sharply.

"Nonsense, Louis," she said, impatiently; "don't allow your head
to be turned by every pretty face that you see. There are plenty of
fine-looking girls in our own set, without wasting your admiration
upon a poor sewing-girl."

"I never should have imagined that she was a sewing-girl," Mr. Hamblin
returned. "I supposed her to be some aristocratic young lady of your
acquaintance, who had come for a social call. She carries herself like
a young queen; her form is simply perfect, and her face!--well, were I an
artist I should love to paint it," he concluded, with unusual enthusiasm.

Mrs. Montague shrugged her graceful shoulders, and curled her red lips
scornfully.

"What would Kitty McKenzie say if she could hear you run on like this
about a girl who has to work for her living?" sh