ter years agone. Irene Lawrence
turned her head with its proudest poise, but her face flushed scarlet
under her veil. She would have made the _amende honorable_ then, if it
had taken all the strength of her soul.

She and Jack Darcy had met occasionally through the summer. Mrs.
Lawrence rather liked to talk mill affairs with him, and his name was
quite a familiar one in their household. Now that it had come, she was
rather glad to offer this wordless apology for a crime against
good-breeding, that only a rude young girl could be guilty of, to one
she considered her inferior.

She had wondered more than once, why that long-ago evening at Sylvie's
should haunt her,--the talk of costumes, the bright chat, the dainty
ripples of laughter, and that face with its cool, steady power. If it
had been that of any other man, she would have pitted herself against
it, and conquered, she fancied. Now conquests were things of the past.
She was not one of your soft, maudlin women, who sigh for a little love.
She looked straight into the coming years, and saw herself always alone,
with no feeling of pity or regret.

As for Jack Darcy, when they had passed, he turned and looked after
them,--after _her_, in her state and dignity. He held one secret of her
life that she would never know. He had questioned Maverick, who learned
that she had no remembrance of going out that night. He had bound Fred
over to a most willing secrecy.

Ah, Jack! any remembrance that you can carry so guardedly in your soul
is a dangerous thing,--a spark that may kindle a great fire "that many
waters cannot quench!"

Sylvie did not relinquish her own outside interests. The school that had
had so small a beginning was now merged into a regular enterprise, and
been re-christened an Industrial School. It had a permanent teacher, and
occupied the whole house, the rent being paid by some benevolent
gentlemen. A committee of ladies assisted in the different classes. The
store was kept open, one side being reserved for articles of clothing
or fancy goods made by the pupils, the other as a bakery on a limited
scale, and a lunch-counter. It certainly was doing a good work. Some
young girls, after being trained, had been provided with service places,
and had given excellent satisfaction. Irene went through it one day with
Sylvie, and was oddly interested.

"I wish I had a genius of some kind," she said abruptly to Sylvie
afterward. "If I could write a book, or paint a