e roots of his hair, but Miss Felicia's
all-comprehensive glance never wavered. This was the young man whom Ruth
had been mysterious about. She intended to know how far the affair
had gone, and it would have been useless, she knew, for Jack to try to
deceive her.

"All our Southern girls are lovely," he answered in all sincerity.

"And you like them better than the New York belles?"

"I don't know any."

"Then that means that you do."

"Do what?"

"Do like them better."

The boy thought for a moment.

"Yes, and Miss MacFarlane best of all; she is so--so--" the boy
faltered--"so sincere, and just the kind of girl you would trust with
anything. Why, I told her all about myself before I'd known her half an
hour."

"Yes, she was greatly pleased." The match-making instinct was always
uppermost in Miss Felicia's moves, and then, again, this young man had
possibilities, his uncle being rich and he being his only nephew.

"Oh, then she told you!" The boy's heart gave a great leap. Perhaps,
after all, Ruth had not heard--at all events she did not despise him.

"No, I told her myself. The only thing that seemed to worry Ruth was
that you had not told her enough. If I remember right, she said you were
very shy."

"And she did not say anything about--" Jack stopped. He had not intended
to put the question quite in this way, although he was still in doubt.
Give this keen-eyed, white-haired old lady but an inkling of what was
uppermost in his mind and he knew she would have its every detail.

"About what?" Here Miss Felicia's eyes were suddenly diverted, and
became fastened on the short figure of Mr. Isaac Cohen, who had risen
to his feet and stood talking in the most confidential way with
Morris--Peter listening intently. Such phrases as "Better make the
columns of marble," from Morris, and, "Well, I will talk it over with
the Rabbi," from the tailor, reached his ears. Further relief came when
Miss Felicia rose from her chair with her hand extended to Morris, who
was already taking leave of Peter and all danger was passed when host
and hostess conducted the tailor and the architect to the door; Morris
bending over Miss Felicia's hand and kissing it with the air of a
courtier suddenly aroused by the appearance of royalty (he had been
completely immersed in Cohen's talk), and the tailor bowing to her on
his way out without even so much as touching the tips of her fingers.

"There, my dear Breen," said Peter, when he