ger sets,
accustomed to being snubbed and put down by those two years older, would
yield the outspoken homage of loyal subjects. She was Queen Marion to
the youngsters of the school, brave, wise, and, oh! so generous; while
to the chosen few in the class, who knew something of her love for the
heroic, she was Maid Marion, but only "Maidie" to one, her loyal and
faithful ally, Grace.

She was still abroad in the fall of '75 when that quiet wedding took
place which she was vainly implored to attend as first bridesmaid. Three
years had elapsed since her mother's death, but her heart was still in
mourning. But early in the spring of the Centennial year, after a stormy
passage, she was safely restored to her own land, and the evening after
the arrival of their party Captain and Mrs. Truscott were dining with
them at the Clarendon. There had been a brief, a very brief call from
her father and step-mother, and then she accepted Grace's invitation to
come to them at the Point. A slight illness of Mr. Sanford's made it
necessary to abandon the visit at the time, as she was telegraphed for
before she had been forty-eight hours at the Point. The month that
followed settled the question as to future relations with Mrs. Sanford.
She would meet her father whenever or wherever he wanted except under
that roof; on that point she was adamant, and he neither could nor did
blame her. And so it resulted that she was once more with Grace and the
"Admirable Crichton," as she had been accustomed to allude to him in her
letters for the past year; and up to the moment of his return from the
city he was the only hero who had appeared to her eyes in that
manufacturing centre where the article is supposed to be turned out at
the rate of fifty a year. It never had occurred to her that men so
particular about the cut of their uniform trousers, the set of a
"blouse," or the nice adjustment of the hair could by any possibility
develop heroic qualities, and yet Captain Truscott always looked as
though he had stepped out of a band-box.

It was late when she went to her room this lovely night in June. It was
true that she had one or two letters to write, but they were very brief.
She longed to have Grace come to her and tell her the result of her
interview with Jack, and she longed to know what that letter would say.
Never for an instant had it occurred to her that at a moment's notice a
home could be abandoned, a young wife left to mourn, a delightful