“You are a contradiction,” went on Mrs. Osborn, as if Hugh had not spoken, “and yet—well, really you interest me. We must see more of each other—but here we are at the Grove, and there is my dear friend, Mrs. Horton, on the veranda.” Hugh was soon presented to Mrs. J. Bruce-Horton, who received him with unfeigned cordiality. “My husband,” said she, “has spoken so much of you since your chance meeting the other day, that I have been quite impatient to meet you.” “Well, I like that,” said Mrs. Osborn, with a haughty air and elevated eyebrows, addressing her hostess. “Indeed, have you only heard of Mr. Stanton through your husband? Does all I have said go for nothing?” “Oh, I beg your pardon, my dear Lucy,” replied Mrs. Horton. “Of course you were the first to tell us about him.” Then, addressing Hugh, she continued, “My friend Mrs. Osborn, I assure you, has been most profuse in complimentary remarks.” “I am powerless to express my gratitude,” said Hugh, gallantly. “Mr. Stanton,” said stately Mrs. Horton, bowing, “my daughter, Miss Ethel.” With true frontier hospitality Ethel advanced and, extending both her hands to Hugh, said: “You are, indeed, most welcome, Mr. Stanton. It was daddy’s wish that we make you feel at home when you called, and it will not be my fault if we fail in doing so.” Hugh stammered out his thanks, as he accepted a chair. Ethel was a revelation to him. She was the same girl on her father’s ranch that she had been at Lake Geneva, when she completely captivated Jack Redfield. To Hugh she seemed a budding rose just opening into a greater beauty; and yet, what could add to her loveliness! She seemed a queen just stepping from a canvas. Her eyes, her mouth, her nose, her hair, her smile, her voice—these were among the entrancing glories of Ethel Horton. Hugh Stanton did not believe that he loved her—no, not that—he simply longed to know her better, to give her his confidence and to receive hers in return—a generous, platonic regard, actuated by, well—only respect, he told himself. The day marked an epoch in Hugh Stanton’s life. The seeds of a mysterious ambition had been planted—what of the harvest? CHAPTER X.—HOME OF THE HORTONS