It was refreshing to him to turn once more to Jean, to meet the dear laughter-loving eyes, to watch the fleeting changes of expression on her bonny face, to mark the unconscious grace of every movement of her lithe, slender figure. Yet, the secret of Jean's strong hold on his heart lay not in these superficial attractions, nor in her frank simplicity of manner, nor yet in her girlish freshness, which was her greatest claim to beauty, but in the knowledge he had gained of her true nature; a nature so honest, so unfailing in loyalty, so unselfish, so charitable, so responsive in its sympathies, that both respect and reverence were blended with his love for her. And yet he was not wholly blind to her faults. He knew that she was impatient and hot-tempered, and that, in anger, she was often sarcastic and cutting; but he also saw that she made a brave effort to hold herself in check, and that, however she might be worsted, she never ceased to struggle for the mastery. His meditations had carried him far adrift of the conversation, but although Jean had observed his abstraction, she did not resent it. She was living in a day-dream herself, a dream that was all the happier for that miserable hour at the dinner-table. She rose with a regretful sigh when Helen asked her to go up with a message to Aunt Helen. She looked up at Farr as he held back the portière for her to pass, and impulsively put out her hand to him. "We are friends again, are we not?" she asked scarcely above her breath. Farr gripped the little hand so tightly it almost hurt her. "Only friends, Jean?" was all he said; but Jean was satisfied. Aunt Helen detained her for some few moments with questions about the dinner, and when at last she was free Mary called to her to please step into the nursery, for Larry was wakeful and naughty and would not be quiet. Quite a half-hour had passed before she re-entered the drawing-room. She paused on the threshold, attracted by Farr's voice. He was seated just within the doorway. His back was turned toward her and he faced Miss Stuart, who was leaning slightly forward in her chair. "You are mistaken," he was saying. "I remember everything about that evening, to the color of the gown you wore." Before the conclusion of this sentence Miss Stuart had detected Jean, half hidden by the heavy portière. "Those were pleasant days in Washington, Val," she said, accompanying the words with a faint sigh. Jean, never dreaming that she had been seen, retreated precipitately to a far corner of the hall, and when she once more entered the room her face was pale, but she held her head well up, and with a low "I beg your pardon," swept by the two, who still maintained their positions. That night Miss Stuart's light burned until a late hour, and in response to Helen's gentle inquiry as to the cause thereof she gave through the closed door, but a curt "Good-night." CHAPTER XIII. AN INVITATION.