"No; upon reflection I don't think I dare mention it," Granton said coolly, looking at her with an expression in his big brown eyes which made her flush in spite of herself. "Don't be impudent," she replied. "That is my province." "Time!" called the umpire, a little later. "Howard and Granton, concluding set." "Wish me luck," Granton murmured, bending toward Betty as he rose. "I'm sure I do, for my own sake," she responded, with an ambiguity he afterward had reason to understand. "What shall I do if Mr. Howard beats him?" Betty said to George and Dora, as the set began. "There'd be no fun playing him instead of Mr. Granton." "Oh, Howard hasn't the ghost of a chance," George responded reassuringly. "You are all right, Bet, if you don't get nervous." But Betty did get nervous. The color came and went in her cheeks almost as swiftly as the flying balls were thrown, whose skilful service and returns soon proved Snow to be right in asserting that Howard had no chance against his antagonist. "Oh, George," she whispered, in an agony of apprehension, "can I do it? Won't he beat me? It would be too horrible to challenge him and then fail!" "Do it?" retorted her cousin; "of course you can do it! See that short serve. That's what's breaking Howard up: it's easy for you to return if you'll run up to it. His swift service doesn't begin to be as good as yours." "Love set," called the scorer; and as Betty looked at the supple, muscular figure of Nat Granton while the players exchanged courts, her fears almost overcame her resolve. "My heart is thumping against my very boot-heels, Dolly," she confided to her friend. "It's no sort of use." "Are you going to give up?" demanded Dora curiously, and perhaps a little tauntingly. "Give up!" cried Mistress Mork stoutly. "Do I ever give up? I'll die first! But I do wish he wouldn't get so many love games! It's dreadfully discouraging." Granton was, in truth, having everything his own way. Howard, although a good player, had somehow lost his coolness, and was soon demoralized by a peculiar short, cutting service, of which his opponent had complete mastery, and which he was unable to return. His play became wild and uneven, and the contest was quickly decided against him. The master of ceremonies came forward with the announcement that the prize racquet belonged to Mr. Nathaniel Granton, but that, according to the provisions of the tournament, any person had now a right to challenge the winner to play for the prize, by the best two games in three. There was a rustle, and then a pause, as many eyes were turned toward George Snow, who had won in the Newport games the summer before. But that gentleman sat quiet in his place, a smile of amusement stealing over his comely features as Dora said, in the most tragic of whispers,-- "Oh, Betty, how can you?"