“I’m sorry it rains,” said Mrs. Bruce, looking at the dewy panes when at last they rose from table. “I wanted you to see how pleasant the outlook is from the verandas.” The proprietor passed near them as they moved into the spacious living-room of the inn. “Why couldn’t you have a pleasant evening for us, Mr. Beebe?” asked Mrs. Bruce. “Sorry I couldn’t,” he returned. “I’m goin’ to make up for it the best I can, though. I’ve got an entertainment for you if you’ll take your friends to that other end o’ the room.” “Music!” groaned Irving. “I feel in my bones that somebody is going to sing. Us for the porch, Nixie.” This party had been last to leave the dining-room, and already a large group of guests had gathered in the living-room, and were waiting. Irving was already taking long, quiet strides away from the scene of danger when Robert caught him by the arm. “Heavens, Brute!” he gasped. “Look there! _Is_ it—or isn’t it!” Irving turned, and beheld at the other end of the room Rosalie Vincent, dressed in white, standing quietly, looking about her and smiling a little as if in question of her audience, and wondering what she should do for them. Irving’s heart gave the most acrobatic bound of its existence. He stood fixed in his tracks. “Do you see who that is, mother?” inquired Robert, leaning over the ladies. Mrs. Bruce’s busy eyes sought her lorgnette. Helen Maynard was first to realize who it was that stood there tall and fair in the fleecy white gown, with the golden coronet of her hair shining as her only ornament, and her bare throat and arms, round and slender against a dark background. “Most extraordinary!” exclaimed Mrs. Nixon. “I never saw such a resemblance.” She looked over at her brother in a neighboring chair. He was smoothing his mustache; and he nodded at her in reply. “Why, it _is_ Hebe!” declared Robert, and his voice cracked high. “I never saw anything so lovely in my life.” “_How_ did it happen?” inquired Mrs. Bruce. She looked at Irving. His face was tense and scowling. “Tell me, Irving,” she demanded in low tones. “How in the world did she get here?” “How should I know?” he returned; and so irefully that Mrs. Bruce stared at him. Why in the world should it make him angry? Irving’s heart kept on its quickened pace. So this was what Betsy meant by saying he was likely to see her; why she had adjured him to keep away from her. She had said—Irving’s eyes devoured the white dove; but Rosalie began to speak, and again her voice was music. “I scarcely know what you would like to hear this rainy evening,” she said, “but I think I will begin by going back to first principles, and telling you the story of Red Riding Hood.” Mrs. Bruce’s lips would scarcely meet.