ie!" she cried. "Do you mean that Mr. Weil--that--why, I do not
understand! He has hardly spoken to me, while he has spent nearly every
minute he has been here, with you!"

"Of course he has," responded the other. "What could be more like a case
of true love? If ever a man lost his head over a woman he has lost his
over you, Daisy. And, at any rate, you must know that _I_ care nothing
for him. You certainly could see where _my_ affections were engaged."

Daisy pressed her hand dreamily to her forehead. She had never known her
sister to show the least partiality to any other man.

"I understand you less than ever," she faltered.

"Are you so blind?" exclaimed Millicent, with superior wisdom. "Did you
think Mr. Roseleaf had been so closely engaged all this time in my
literary work without learning to care for me? I presume you will think
I ought to blush, but that is not my way. The strangest thing is that I
should have to explain what I thought every one knew."

Poor little Daisy! She was so crushed by these statements that she did
not know what reply to make, which way to turn for consolation.

"He has told you that he loves you?" she managed to articulate.

"He has shown it, at least," was the answer. "He had not been here a
week before he tried to put his arms around me. I had to let him hold my
hand to avoid an absolute quarrel. He is not an ordinary man, Daisy, and
does not act like others, but we understand each other. He is waiting
for something better in his business prospects, and as I am so busy on
my new book I am glad to be left to myself for the present."

It was the old story. Daisy could not doubt her sister's version of her
relations with Mr. Roseleaf. When he called the next time there was a
red spot in both her cheeks. He told her with happy eyes that he had at
last secured something which made it possible to speak to her father.
He had been offered a position on the Pacific Quarterly, at a good
salary, and another periodical had engaged him to write a series of
articles.

"They tell me I have no imagination," he explained, "but that I do very
good work on anything that contains matters of fact. I have some money
of my own, but I did not want to tell your father I was an idle fellow,
without brains enough to make myself useful in the world. The novel on
which I base such great hopes might not seem to him worth considering
seriously, you know. So I can go with a better account of myself, and I
a