reet in a house distinguished from
the rest of the block by a garden at one side. According to Mrs.
Wellington she was beautiful and rich, and if one more touch were
needed to make her an irreproachable heroine, the long illness from
which she was then beginning to recover supplied it. Watching at the
window, Charlotte had the pleasure of seeing her carried out for a
drive once or twice, but she never had a glimpse of her face.

Putting two and two together, she became quite sure that this Miss
Carpenter was the rose which was out of reach; but though she was on
the point of it several times, she never quite dared to question
Cousin Francis about her.

Charlotte had woven a charming romance with these slender threads,
being at the romantic age when real life is seen beneath the
lime-light of fairyland. Was it any wonder things seemed dull here in
Kenton Terrace?

These entertaining memories being for the time exhausted, her thoughts
turned to the grievance that had sent her downstairs with such
vehemence,--a thrilling, fascinating story taken from her at the most
critically exciting point.

"I cannot allow you to read novels when you are going to school," Aunt
Caroline had said; adding, "and this book is not at all the sort of
thing for a little girl."

At the recollection Charlotte put her hand to her hair. Little girl,
indeed! When people wished to be disagreeable, they reminded you that
you were a little girl.

"I have always read what I pleased," she insisted, relinquishing the
book unwillingly.

"I cannot understand Mrs. Brent's allowing it; but however that may
have been, while you are with us your Aunt Virginia and I will
exercise some supervision over what you read."

Questions about the owner of the novel followed, and here was another
grievance. It had been lent to Charlotte by one of her schoolmates, a
girl with fluffy yellow hair and many rings, whom after a week's
acquaintance,--to use her own phrase,--she simply adored. Her name was
Lucile Lyle--in itself adorable--and the intimacy with her had
resulted in Charlotte becoming Carlotta.

"Lyle?" Aunt Virginia repeated questioningly.

"Don't you remember Maggie McKay, Virginia? This is her daughter," was
Aunt Caroline's reply. To Charlotte she said, "To-morrow I shall give
you this book to return, and while of course I wish you to be polite,
I do not wish you to be intimate with this girl."

"I don't care what she says, I shall read it, and be