ed away with an effort at self-control, and looked
about the room, she must have noticed, too, the painful contrast between
Jack's home and this, which was to be hers; and have felt a sinking of
the heart, which it required all her strength and courage to overcome.

"We are not looking fit to be seen; I know it, Lavinia!" sighed Mrs.
Betterson. "But you'll excuse it--you've already excused so many things
in the past! It seems a dreadful, unnatural thing for _our_ family to be
so--so very--yet don't think we are absolutely reduced, Lavinia. Mr.
Betterson's connections, as everybody knows, are very wealthy and
aristocratic, and they are sure to do something for him soon. This is my
husband, sister Lavinia." And, with a faint simper of satisfaction, she
looked up at a person who just then entered from an adjoining room.

He was a tall, well-made man, who looked (Vinnie could not help
thinking) quite capable of doing something for himself. He might have
been called fine-looking, but that his fine looks, like his gentility,
of which he made a faded show in his dress and manners, appeared to have
gone somewhat to seed. He greeted Vinnie with polite condescension, said
a few commonplace words, settled his dignified chin in his limp dicky,
which was supported by a high, tight stock (much frayed about the
edges), and went on out of the house.

"Now you have seen him!" whispered Mrs. Betterson, as if it had been a
great event in Vinnie's life. "Very handsome, and perfectly well-bred,
as you observe. Not at all the kind of man to be neglected by his
family, aristocratic as they are; do you think he is? Yes, my dear
Lavinia," she added, with a sickly smile, "you have seen a real, live
Betterson!"

These evidences of a foolish pride surviving affliction made poor Vinnie
more heartsick than anything else; and for a moment the brave girl was
almost overcome with discouragement.

In the meanwhile the real, live Betterson walked out into the yard,
where Jack--who had not cared to follow Vinnie into the house--was
talking with Link.

"Will you walk in, sir?" And the stately Betterson neck bent slightly in
its stiff stock.

"No, I thank you," replied Jack. "But I suppose this trunk goes in."

"Ah! to be sure. Lincoln,"--with a wave of the aristocratic Betterson
hand,--"show the young man where to put the trunk. He can take it to
Cecie's room."

"I can, can I? That's a privilege!" thought Jack. He was perfectly
willing to be a p