rald standing beside her in her rich, dainty, becoming attire as
if to make the contrast all the more painfully striking! Poor little
Cinderella Phebe! She looked up at Denham almost ready to cry, and said
never a word.

"It has been such a long, long time!" he said, still holding her hands.
"I do not know how we have made out to spare you."

"We shall not have to spare her much longer," said Gerald. "She is coming
down-stairs to-morrow."

And then Halloway dropped Phebe's hands, and turning to Gerald, held out
a hand to her.

"Forgive me for not even noticing you, Miss Vernor. At first I could
only see Miss Phebe."

"Doesn't Gerald look nice?" asked Phebe, trying to choke back the
uncomfortable lump rising so unreasonably in her throat. Halloway moved
back a little and looked at Gerald, who stood fastening her long glove,
utterly unconscious or unheedful of his scrutiny. The light in the niche
at the head of the stairs threw its full glow over both her and Phebe.

"Yes," he answered, quietly, after an imperceptible pause, and, as he
turned back to Phebe, it seemed to her that his eyes glanced over her
with a suddenly awakened consciousness of the wrapper and the tumbled
hair and even of the little worn-out slippers. "You look pale," he said,
kindly. "I know I am wrong to keep you standing here just because it is
so pleasant to see you again. And it is easier to say good-by, knowing I
have only till to-morrow to wait now. _A demain_."

"Good-night," murmured Phebe, without looking up; "good-night, Gerald."
And then she turned quickly into her room, and closed the door, and stood
stock-still behind it, holding her breath and listening intently till
she heard the front door close upon them and the last echo of their
footsteps die away in the street outside. Then she flung herself face
downward upon the bed and cried miserably to herself out of sheer
disappointment. Why did it have to be all so very, very different from
her dream?

CHAPTER XI.

"MY SON DICK."

Never had there been a more perfect night than that whereon Dick
Hardcastle's coming of age was celebrated. Only enough wind stirred to
toy softly with the gay little pennons streaming from the many boats
winding their way to the rendezvous, and to throw dancing shadows of
light upon the water from the torches at their prow. All along the banks
of the lake, where high hills shut out the moonlight and bound the shore
in an almost Egyptian darkness