rat rather skilfully dyed.

This verdict rendered before the Thursday afternoon session of the Y. A.
K.'s, which had gathered to hear a paper by Mrs. Sudds upon the Ming
Dynasty, afforded its members immense relief. Their fears, too, that the
smart ear-rings Kate wore might be real pearls were assuaged by Mrs.
Neifkins, who declared she had seen their counterpart in Butte for
seventy-five cents.

But the fact had soaked into the average citizen that Kate had
"arrived."

Among those who admitted this was Mrs. Toomey, who lingered at the
breakfast table the morning after Kate's return, thinking of many things
while she absently clinked her spoon against the edge of her cup. Jap
had just left after an animated argument as to whether policy demanded
the entertainment at dinner of the barber and his wife, who contemplated
buying a sewing machine of a make for which Toomey was now the agent.
Recalling the time when they had refused invitations right and left
because there was no one in Prouty whom they had cared to know, a smile
of bitterness came to her lips. Since then, she had eaten the pie of
humbleness to the last crumb. She had become a self-acknowledged toady,
a spineless sycophant, and for what? For the privilege of being invited
to teas, bridge whists, of being sure of a place in the local social
life.

This morning she was doubting the wisdom of her choice. Kate's sincere
unswerving friendship might have been compensation enough for the
anguish of being "left out." Yet she could not exactly blame herself,
for who could have foreseen that things would turn out like this? It was
not remorse that Mrs. Toomey felt, but regret for not arraying herself
on the side which ultimately would have brought her the most benefits.

Mrs. Toomey never had been able to gather anything from Kate's
expression upon the few occasions that they had met since the girl had
called her a "Judas Iscariot" and left the house, but she recalled that
at each later encounter she had experienced the same sense of
uneasiness.

Was the feeling due to a guilty conscience, she asked herself, or was an
implacable hatred that was biding its time, concealed by Kate's
enigmatic face?

Mrs. Toomey concluded that this theory was farfetched--that it was not
human nature to retain resentment for even a real wrong through such a
lapse of years. Time took the keen edge off of everything, including the
bitterest enemy. And yet, in spite of this comforting