“I’m starting out on a new life, Mr. Bruce,” she said, turning and looking at him with a direct gaze. She seemed to him enchanting. He knew, better than she, that she was starting out in a new life; and he begrudged it, strangely. He knew her to be all unconscious as yet of her own charm and power. He dreaded the opening of those clear eyes that as yet were so modest—the windows through which one perceived her innocence. While he was justly angry with Betsy for rousing unthought-of suspicion and caution, he could not deny the justice of her sympathy. He met the blue gaze with a smile that set the pulse to beating faster. “You don’t intend to forget old friends for new, do you?” he asked. “‘There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days,’ you know. This little audience was enthusiastic over you, and audiences always will be; but— “‘Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold,’ remember.” “It’s unkind to laugh at me,” returned the girl, with surprising heat. “You know I have no thought of fame.” “Rosalie, Rosalie!” he exclaimed and seized her hand protectingly. “I’m not laughing at you. I believe you could have fame if you wish and work; but somehow I don’t want the people to have a right to gaze at you, and listen, and applaud.” A strange film came over her eyes as she still looked at him. It was as if she withdrew herself as she took her hand away. “I suppose,” she said, “that people who have always had their own way are subject to such fancies.” “Betsy said that to you!” he exclaimed, acutely. She shook her head but did not speak. “Betsy knows nothing of our compact.” He leaned toward her, and she shrank, but kept her golden head proudly lifted. “Betsy knows nothing of the moment when we stood above the eagles and knew what in life was— “‘the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.’ Why do I call you Rosalie? Because it means _you_. It is one of the ‘sweets’ that came to me then—” “Mr. Bruce,” the girl interrupted him, “Betsy _does_ know nothing of it; but if she did, Betsy is something more than clever, she is wise. She probably doesn’t read Emerson, but if she did, it would be her own thought that she would put into his words: ‘Our friendships hurry to short and poor conclusions, because we have made them a texture of wine and dreams, instead of the tough fibre of the human heart.’” The speaker took a firm hold on the sweet voice that threatened to break. “That morning was a time of wine and dreams. I’ve always been a child. I’ve always dreamed dreams; but to-night I am awake, I am starting out in real life, with my eyes open.” Those eyes had been downcast, but now she lifted them again to her companion’s flushed face. “I shall be very glad if you help me—and not hinder.” “The tough fibre of the human heart,” repeated Irving. “Yes,” returned the girl. “It is a slow growth,—but it holds.”