ne looking like a goddess indeed (although a very young one),
her white-robed form outlined against a dark background, one arm
extended, her head thrown back, and her eyes fixed upon the outspread
flag. But at the instant the curtain began to rise for this second view,
she had felt the barrel broaden slightly under her, and knew that a hoop
had parted. At the same second came the feeling that her best course was
to stand perfectly motionless, in the hope that the staves would still
support her until she could be assisted down from her isolated height.
For she was fifteen feet above the stage, and there was nothing within
reach which she could grasp. A chill ran over her; she tried not to
breathe. At the same moment, however, when the sensation of falling was
coming upon her, two firm hands were placed upon each side of her waist
from behind, very slightly lifting her, as if to show her that she was
safe even if the support did give way beneath her. It was Heathcote,
standing on the table below. He had been detailed as scene-shifter
(Rachel, being behind the scenes herself, had arranged this), had
noticed the barrel as it moved, and had sprung up unseen behind the
draperied pyramid to assist the goddess. No one saw him. When the
curtain reached the foot-lights again he was assisting all the
allegorical personages to descend from their heights, and first of all
Liberty, who was trembling. No one knew this, however, save himself.
Rachel, gorgeous as Autumn, drew him away almost immediately, and Anne
had no opportunity to thank him until the next afternoon.

"You do not know how frightful it was for the moment," she said. "I had
never felt dizzy in my life before. I had nothing with which I could
save myself, and I could not jump down on the tables below, because
there was no footing: I should only have thrown down the others. How
quick you were, and how kind! But you are always kind."

"Few would agree with you there, Miss Douglas. Mr. Dexter has far more
of what is called kindness than I have," said Heathcote, carelessly.

They were sitting in the same arbor. Anne was silent a moment, as if
pondering. "Yes," she said, thoughtfully, "I believe you are right. You
are kind to a few; he is kind to all. It would be better if you were
more like him."

"Thanks. But it is too late, I fear, to make a Dexter of me. I have
always been, if not exactly a grief to my friends, still by no means
their pride. Fortunately I have no fath