s almost certain--that those very persons who
ridicule and criticise could not themselves do the very least of those
deeds, attain the very lowest of those successes, which afford them so
much entertainment in others."

So spoke Dexter; and not without a tinge of bitterness, which he
disguised as scorn. A little of the indifference to outside opinion
which characterized the very class of whom he spoke would have made him
a contented, as he already was a successful, man. But there was a
surface of personal vanity over his better qualities which led him to
desire a tribute of universal liking; and this is the tribute the class
referred to always refuses--to the person who appears to seek it.

"But, in spite of ridicule, self-sacrifice is still heroic, faith in our
humanity still beautiful, and courage still dear, to all hearts that
have true nobility," he continued. Then it struck him that he was
generalizing too much, feminine minds always preferring a personal
application. "I would rather have a girl who was brave and truthful for
my wife than the most beautiful woman on earth," he said, with the
quick, sudden utterance he used when he wished to appear impulsive.

"But beautiful women can be truthful too," said Anne, viewing the
subject impartially, with no realization of any application to herself.

"Can, but rarely are. I have, however, known--that is, I think I now
know--_one_," he added, with quiet emphasis, coming round on another
tack.

"I hope you do," said Anne; "and more than one. Else your acquaintance
must be limited." As she spoke, the music sounded forth within, and
forgetting the subject altogether, she turned with girlish interest to
watch the dancers.

Dexter almost laughed aloud to himself in his shadowed corner, she was
so unconscious. He had not thought her beautiful, save for the
perfection of her youthful bloom; but now he suddenly began to discover
the purity of her profile, and the graceful shape of her head, outlined
against the lighted window. His taste, however, was not for youthful
simplicity; he preferred beauty more ripened, and heightened by art.
Having lived among the Indians in reality, the true children of nature,
he had none of those dreams of ideal perfection in a brown skin and in
the wilderness which haunt the eyes of dwellers in cities, and mislead
even the artist. To him Rachel in her black floating laces, and Helen
Lorrington in her shimmering silks, were far more beautiful