"You must arrange my hair very carefully, Finette," she said, as the maid brushed out the dark luxuriance of her tresses, "and put on my handsomest morning-dress. I expect a caller this morning." It always pleased her to appear at her very fairest in Howard Templeton's presence. She liked for him to realize all he had lost when he gave her back her troth because she was poor, and because he was not manly enough to dare the ills of poverty for her sake. So Finette arranged the silky, shining, dark hair in a soft mass of waves and puffs that did not look too elaborate for a morning toilet, and yet was exquisitely becoming, while it gave a certain proud stateliness to the _petite_ figure. Then she added a little comb of frosted silver, and laid out several morning-dresses of various hues and styles for the inspection of her mistress. Mrs. St. John looked them over very critically. It was a spring morning, but the genial airs of that balmy season had not yet made their appearance sufficiently for an indulgence in the crisp muslin robes that suited the month, so Xenie selected a morning-robe of pale-pink cashmere, richly trimmed in quilted satin and yellowish Languedoc lace. The soft, rich color atoned for the unusual absence of tinting in the oval fairness of her face, and when she descended to the drawing-room she had never looked lovelier. The slight air of restless expectancy about her was not enough to detract from her beauty, though it robbed her of repose. "Mamma, has little Jack come in yet from his morning airing?" she inquired of Mrs. Carroll, who was sorting some bright-colored wools on a sofa. "Yes, half an hour ago. You slept late," said Mrs. Carroll. "Let us have him in to amuse us," said Mrs. St. John, restlessly. Mrs. Carroll rang a bell and a servant appeared. "Tell Ninon to bring my son here," said Mrs. St. John. Presently the little French maid appeared, leading the beautiful, richly-dressed child by the hand. Little Jack rushed forward tumultuously and climbed into Xenie's lap. She kissed him fondly but carefully, taking care that he did not disarrange her hair or dress. "Pretty mamma," whispered the dark-eyed child, patting her pale cheeks with his dimpled, white hand. Mrs. St. John smiled proudly, and just then her mother said, with the air of one who vaguely recalls something: "Did I dream it last night, Xenie, or did you tell me that Mr. Templeton is alive, and that he is coming here to-day?" There came a sudden hurried peal at the door-bell. Xenie started, growing white and red by turns. "I told you so," she answered. "And there he is now, I suppose." She sat very still and waited, clasping the beautiful boy to her wildly beating heart. There was a bustle in the hall, then the door was thrown open and a gentleman was ushered in.