imply bent on ruining yourself socially. I don't wonder
people say you're daft about him."

"Who says I'm daft about him?" queried Miss Allison, flushing instantly,
but looking dangerous.

"Well, not just that, perhaps," returned Mrs. Lawrence. "But that's what
they will say now. Surely Mrs. Langdon could ask somebody in his place
who could have escorted you,--or else I could."

"Mrs. Langdon did invite somebody else,--two somebody elses, in fact, as
my letter urged her to do. Fanny Tracy was wild to go, and Captain
Farwell wild to take her. I did a charitable thing in suggesting them."

"Then the result of that piece of charity will be that all Chicago will
say you are so much in love with that man you couldn't go 'Faust' when
he went away."

"Chicago has too many other things to think of, and---- Where's papa?"
said Miss Allison, turning abruptly from her aunt and moving with
quick, impetuous step towards the heavy portiere that hung between the
parlor and Mr. Allison's library. But she stopped short at the
threshold, for there, just within the rich folds of the hanging barrier,
apparently searching for some particular book among the shelves nearest
the parlor and farthest from the library lights, and humming musically
to himself as he did so, was Cary's tutor.

"I did not know you were here, Mr. Elmendorf," said Miss Allison,
coldly. "I supposed you were in the study with my brother."

"I was until a moment ago. We needed a book, and I came down for it."

Mr. Allison's easy-chair and reading-lamp with the evening papers were
all arranged as usual, awaiting, at the other end of the room, the
coming of the master of the house. It was his custom to read there some
hours each evening, and the library was the one room in which he reigned
supreme. His books, papers, desks, and tables were sacred to his use,
and might not at any time be disturbed by other hands. Even Mrs.
Lawrence, who had her own books in her own little snuggery up-stairs,
rarely ventured to touch her brother's library shelves. As for Florence,
she never cared to. It was well known that Mr. Elmendorf had more than
once been sharply rebuked for having helped himself without first
seeking the owner's permission. Yet here he was again. The odd thing
about it was that this end of the library was dark. The books on these
shelves were huge folios, the size of some Brobdingnagian atlas, any one
of which required all Mr. Elmendorf's strength to lift from i