y thing else!"

That evening there was a hop at the hotel. The Morrises were
enthusiastic dancers--even the widow, Bertha's mother, not disdaining a
quadrille. Mr. Bartlett, in an elegant evening dress, his eyes
sparkling with new light, was there also. In the course of the day he
had encountered a Boston cousin, Miss Jane Heath, a tall, dashing girl,
some two or three years older than himself. She was one of the few
women with whom he felt entirely at ease. There was an honest,
cousinly affection between them; and he always felt relieved, in
society, when supported by her presence.

"Now, Harry," said Jane, as they entered the room, "remember, the first
schottisch belongs to me. After that, I'll prove my disinterestedness
by finding you partners."

As he led her upon the floor his eyes dropped in encountering those of
Bertha Morris, whose floating tulle was just settling itself to rest as
she whirled out of the ranks. Poor Bertha! had she been alone she
could have cried. He danced as well as he rode--the splendid, mean
fellow! the handsome, horrid--chiropodist! Well, it was all outward
varnish, no doubt. If it was true that he had relieved the nobility of
Great Britain of their corns, he must have acquired something of the
elegances of their society. But such ease and grace in dancing could
not be picked up by mere imitation--it was a born gift. Even her
brother Dick, who was looked upon as the highest result of fashionable
education in such matters, was not surer or lighter of foot.

An hour later Bertha, who had withdrawn from the dancers and was
refreshing herself with the mild night air at an open window, found
herself temporarily separated from her friends. Mr. Bartlett had
evidently been watching for such an opportunity, for he presently
disengaged himself from the crowd and approached her.

"You are fond of dancing, Miss Morris?" said he.

"Ye-es," she answered, hesitatingly, divided between her determination
to repel his effrontery and her inability to do so. She turned partly
away, and gazed steadily into the moonshine.

Mr. Bartlett, however, was not to be discouraged. "Still, even the
most agreeable exercise will fatigue at last," he remarked.

"Oh," said Bertha, rather sharply, suspecting a professional meaning in
his words, "my feet are perfectly sound, I assure you, Sir!"

It is not to be denied that he was a little surprised at the
earnestness of an assertion which, in a playful