reatment which the Prince of Peace received; she forgot that these
rich, contemptuous people were her brothers and sisters, and that their
hard judgment did not and could not alter their relationship; she forgot
all in a burning indignation, in an angry revolt against the injustice
of the world.

She would study these people, she would note all their little weaknesses
and foibles. Mr. Bircham had given her carte blanche for these three
weeks; she would write him a deliciously sarcastic article on modern
society. The idea fixed her imagination, she laughed to herself at the
thought; for, however sad the fact, it is nevertheless true that to
ordinary mortals "revenge is sweet." Had she given herself time to think
out matters calmly, she would have seen that boh Christianity and the
rules of art were opposed to her idea. It is true that Michael Angelo
and other painters used to revenge themselves on the cardinals or
enemies they most hated by painting them in the guise of devils, but
both they and their art suffered by such a concession to an animal
passion. And Erica fell grievously that evening. This is one of the
evils of social ostracism. It is unjust, unnatural, and selfish. To
preserve what it considers the dignity of society, it drives human
beings into an unnatural position; it fosters the very evils which it
denounces. And society is grossly unfair. A word, a breath, a false
libel in a newspaper is quite sufficient. It will never trouble itself
to inquire minutely into the truth, but will pronounce its hasty
judgment, and then ostracize.

Erica began to listen attentively to the conversation, and it must be
owned that it was not very edifying. Then she studied the faces and
manners of her companions, and, being almost in the middle of the table,
she had a pretty good view. Every creature she studied maliciously,
keenly, sarcastically, until she came to the end of the table, and there
a most beautiful face brought her back to herself for a minute with a
sort of shock. Where had she seen it before? A strong, manly face of the
Roman type, clean-shaven, save for a very slight mustache, which did
not conceal the firm yet sensitive mouth; dark eyes, which even as she
wondered met hers fully for an instant, and gave her a strange feeling
of protection. She knew that at least one person in the room did not
shudder at the idea of sitting at table with Luke Raeburn's daughter.

Better thoughts returned to her, she grew a