t sing, my dear," said Mrs. Wentworth, with a slight
frown. "You are keeping every one waiting."

Keith glanced over at her, and was about to say to Lois, "Don't sing";
but he was too late. Folding her hands before her, and without moving
from where she stood near the wall, she began to sing "Annie Laurie."
She had a lovely voice, and she sang as simply and unaffectedly as if
she had been singing in her own room for her own pleasure.

When she got through, there was a round of applause throughout the
company. Even Mrs. Wentworth joined in it; but she came over and said:

"That was well done; but next time, my dear, let some one play your
accompaniment."

"Next time, don't you do any such thing," said Keith, stoutly. "You can
never sing it so well again if you do. Please accept this from a man who
would rather have heard you sing that song that way than have heard
Albani sing in 'Lohengrin.'" He took the rosebud out of his buttonhole
and gave it to her, looking her straight in the eyes.

"Is this the truth?" she asked, with her gaze quite steady on his face.

"The palpable truth," he said.

CHAPTER XXVI

A MISUNDERSTANDING

Miss Lois Huntington, as she sank back in the corner of her cousin's
carriage, on their way home, was far away from the rattling New York
street. Mrs. Wentworth's occasional recurrence to the unfortunate
incidents of stopping her ears and of singing the song without an
accompaniment did not ruffle her. She knew she had pleased one man--the
one she at that moment would rather have pleased than all the rest of
New York. Her heart was eased of a load that had made it heavy for many
a day. They were once more friends. Mrs. Wentworth's chiding sounded as
if it were far away on some alien shore, while Lois floated serenely on
a tide that appeared to begin away back in her childhood, and was
bearing her gently, still gently, she knew not whither. If she tried to
look forward she was lost in a mist that hung like a soft haze over the
horizon. Might there be a haven yonder in that rosy distance? Or were
those still the billows of the wide and trackless sea? She did not know
or care. She would drift and meantime think of him, the old friend who
had turned the evening for her into a real delight. Was he in love with
Mrs. Lancaster? she wondered. Every one said he was, and it would not be
unnatural if he were. It was on her account he had gone to Mrs.
Wickersham's. She undoubtedly liked him. Many me