“Her dress is all right, but hers is a style of beauty that does not need dress to set it off. She would look lovely in anything. But it would never do to think of sending her away now. Papa is bewitched with her, and I do believe if grandpa was a young man he would fall in love with her himself; he has done nothing but sound her praises ever since he met her in the reading-room.” “Pshaw! Isabel, how extremely foolish you are; do try and get such nonsense out of your head. But I promise I will take care that Wilbur does not see much of her, or any other young gentleman whom we may meet abroad,” said Mrs. Coolidge, resolutely. “If you can only put that resolution in force she may prove very useful to us, after all. Her accent is every bit as pure as Monsieur Renaud’s, and I must confess that her music is perfectly bewildering. She will save all need of music-masters or teachers in the languages, which will be quite an item; it has cost me more than her salary every year for my music and French,” said Isabel. “True, dear, and she will also be very valuable as an interpreter in our shopping and sightseeing expeditions abroad. But to turn to more agreeable things. I want you, Isabel, to do your utmost to make a brilliant match while we are in Europe. With your father’s purse, your face, figure, and appearance, I think you ought to win somebody worth having.” “I hope I may, mamma; I should really enjoy being ‘lady’ somebody,” and the vain girl got up and sailed over to the full-length mirror to survey herself. “Is it not time for Wilbur to come, mamma?” she asked, presently. “Yes; he ought to have been here an hour ago,” answered Mrs. Coolidge, glancing at her watch. Scarce were the words uttered when the doorbell gave forth a clamorous peal; another moment, and there was a manly step on the stair, a deep rich voice called “Mother!” “Isabel!” then the door swung open, and the only son and heir was received with open arms and joyous exclamations of greeting. Wilbur Coolidge was an exceedingly handsome young man of twenty-two years, with a face that challenged all criticism—bright, careless, defiant, full of humor, and possessing a gleam of poetry—a face that girls judge instantly and always admire. He had a frank clear eye of deepest blue, brown hair tinged with gold, a smiling mouth, from which, when he spoke, there gleamed two rows of white, handsome teeth. Yet it was a mouth one could not quite trust—there was something wanting which made one feel that he lacked depth, that there was no great chivalry in his nature, no grand treasure of manly truth, no touch of heroism in his soul. There were few women who would have read him thus critically, yet Brownie did at a glance, when, descending the stairs arm in arm with his sister Isabel, they met face to face, and she was obliged to present him to her. “My brother, Miss Douglas,” she said, briefly and coldly, and with a haughty lifting of her head.