He knew what would happen when this was over. Men as well as women would press upon the young girl to thank her, and he knew with what modest gratitude Rosalie would accept their tributes. He could see Mr. Beebe going about on the outskirts of the crowd, proud of her beauty and success, and knew that he would introduce to her anybody who asked it. Irving drew near to Mrs. Bruce’s chair and stooped over. “Join her when this is over, will you, Madama? I don’t believe she has any chaperon.” “No, I thank you,” was the clear response. “I think I never saw any one who required it less.” Irving bit his lip. “Don’t speak that way,” he begged. “You know they’ll begin dancing after this. Beebe will make it possible for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to dance with her.” “Which will be very much to her taste, I imagine,” retorted Mrs. Bruce. Helen Maynard heard the whispered colloquy. She knew that if, at the close of Rosalie’s efforts, she herself should go forward and join the girl, stand beside her, put her on a par with the guests, Irving Bruce would never forget it of her. She leaned back in her chair, her heart beating a little fast. By nature she loved power. She had begun to taste it to-night. Aware of looking her best, aware of the sunshine; of approval rained upon her by Mrs. Nixon and Mrs. Bruce, and the frank admiration of the young men, there was a still sweeter triumph for her in the expression of Mr. Derwent’s eyes, which roved over her faint rose-color with an amused kindness at first, but lingered with a surprise and admiration which she treasured eagerly. Suddenly all was changed. There was a centre of attraction toward which all eyes gravitated. Mr. Derwent had risen and left their party to go nearer. Irving Bruce believed that Rosalie needed protection from a too violent belle-ship. Should she go across this room, and stand as a sort of maid-of-honor to this white and gold pauper princess? Nixie leaned over her chair. Again his random words hit the mark and might carry the day. “By Jove!” he whispered to Helen, “you two girls will look stunning together. You must let me take you over there as soon as Hebe gets through.” Helen’s lips compressed and she did not reply. Rosalie was about to give her last recitation. It was a tender sketch, but with plenty of comedy. A mother was rocking her baby and singing him to sleep, with periodic interruptions from her other children whom she dismissed with varying manner and replies. It was excellently done. Rosalie’s singing was simple and natural, her voice sympathetic, and when the lullaby finally died away, and she rose and bent her lovely head above the baby as she laid him in an imaginary bed, there were plenty of dim eyes among her auditors. The absolute stillness broke as the girl rose and smiled again upon her listeners,—the modest, deprecatory smile the Yellowstone party knew so well.