legantly dressed women and handsomely appointed
girls. Mrs. Wentworth received them all with that graciousness that was
her native manner. Miss Brooke, having secured her "new cap," was seated
at her side, her faded face tinged with rising color, her keen eyes
taking in the scene with quite as much avidity as Gordon's. Gordon had
fallen back quite to the edge of the group that encircled the hostess,
and was watching with eager eyes in the hope that, among the visitors
who came in in little parties of twos and threes, he might find the face
for which he had been looking. The name Wickersham presently fell on
his ear.

"She is to marry Ferdy Wickersham," said a lady near him to another.
They were looking at a handsome, statuesque girl, with a proud face, who
had just entered the room with her mother, a tall lady in black with
strong features and a refined voice, and who were making their way
through the other guests toward the hostess. Mrs. Wentworth greeted them
cordially, and signed to the elder lady to take a seat beside her.

"Oh, no; she is flying for higher game than that." They both put up
their lorgnons and gave her a swift glance.

"You mean--" She nodded over toward Mrs. Wentworth.

"Yes."

"Why, she would not allow him to. She has not a cent in the world. Her
mother has spent every dollar her husband left her, trying to get
her off."

"Yes; but she has spent it to good purpose. They are old friends. Mrs.
Wentworth does not care for money. She has all she needs. She has never
forgotten that her grandfather was a general in the Revolution, and Mrs.
Caldwell's grandfather was one also, I believe. She looks down on the
upper end of Fifth Avenue--the Wickershams and such. Don't you know what
Mrs. Wentworth's cousin said when she heard that the Wickershams had a
coat-of-arms? She said, 'Her father must have made it.'"

Something about the placid voice and air of the lady, and the knowledge
she displayed of the affairs of others, awoke old associations in Keith,
and turning to take a good look at her, he recognized Mrs. Nailor, the
inquiring lady with the feline manner and bell-like voice, who used to
mouse around the verandah at Gates's during Alice Yorke's convalescence.

He went up to her and recalled himself. She apparently had some
difficulty in remembering him, for at first she gave not the slightest
evidence of recognition; but after the other lady had moved away she was
more fortunate in placing him.