ought as he glanced up at the grave old house before turning rapidly
away--as light and sensitive as thistle-down, as vivid as flame. He
tried to recall her delicately distinguished figure and profound dark
eyes, but her charming smile seemed to come between him and her
features, and her face was obscured for him in a mysterious radiance.
Her features taken in themselves were plain, he supposed, certainly they
were not beautiful, yet of her whole appearance his memory held only the
fervent charm of her expression. It was a face with a soul in it, he
though--all the mystery of flame and of shadow was in her smile, so what
mattered the mere surface modelling or the tinting of the skin which was
less ivory than pale amber. An hour ago he had been absolutely
indifferent, almost forgetful of her existence, but his vanity if not
his heart was stung now into an emotion which had in it something of the
primitive barbarian ardour of pursuit. He cared nothing--less than
nothing--for Laura Wilde herself, yet it was not in his nature that he
should suffer in silence before a sudden and unreasonable affront.

Some hours later, when he sat with Adams at dinner, the subject occurred
to him again, and he broke in upon a discussion of the varied fortunes
of their fellow classmen to allude directly to the cause of his
inquietude.

"By the way, I had the pleasure of meeting a protegee of yours the other
afternoon," he said.

Adams met the remark with his whimsical laugh. "Of mine? Thank heaven I
haven't any," he retorted, "but I suppose you mean young Trent, who has
just come up from Virginia."

"I've heard something of him from Mrs. Bridewell, I believe," answered
Kemper across the centrepiece of red carnations, "but I haven't met him
as yet--I was thinking of Miss Wilde when I spoke. I wish you'd try this
sherry--it's really first rate--I brought it over myself."

When Wilkins had filled his glass, Adams lifted it against the light and
looked at the colour of the wine a moment before drinking. "First
rate--I should say so. It's exquisite," he observed as he touched it to
his lips in answer to Kemper's glance of enquiry. "Yes, she's done some
rather fine things," he resumed presently, returning to the subject of
Laura, "but she'll hardly make a popular appeal, I fancy, unless she
turns her talent to patriotic airs. The only poetry we tolerate to-day
is the poetry that serves some definite material purpose--it must either
send us int