“I haven’t a _thing_ to wear, my dear, not a thing!” she cried to her hostess on her arrival; “but Irving was so _perfectly_ lovely, he wouldn’t let me _wait_ for _anything_; and he told me how you’ve let that valuable Betsy go to this faithful lover of _years_, so like you, always to think of _others_, and Irving says you’re _tired_, so that really perhaps I _can_ take some care of you, and it will be such a _joy_ to feel that I’m not _useless_ in this beautiful, beautiful spot, and you never _could_ look anything but _pretty_, Laura, but I do think you _show_ the natural fatigue of _travel_,” etc., etc. This combination of flattery and confidence bound up some of Mrs. Bruce’s wounds. She did make the newcomer useful, not only in the actual labor of housekeeping, but as an excuse for not going where she did not wish to be. But meanwhile she lived a life within herself which her cousin never suspected. Daily the battle between love and pride was renewed. Robert Nixon remained with them, and through him, more than through Irving, she learned of Rosalie’s continued vogue. She declined the sailing party which went out with Captain Salter, and Miss Frost was with difficulty persuaded to go in her place. Upon her return, blown and dishevelled, but joyful, Mrs. Bruce met her cousin with veiled eagerness. “Did they think it very strange of me not to come, Lavinia?” “Why of course they were _disappointed_,” chirped the little woman, endeavoring to tuck up the flying strands of her gray hair; “but when I told them how you felt it a _duty_ to rest _absolutely_ for a week, they understood. I told them how I disliked to leave you alone, but that you never _could_ think of your_self_, and were determined I should have the pleasure, and so I _came_; and oh, Laura, it was the most _lovely_ sail; I did wish every _minute_ for you!” Mrs. Bruce in her chastened state drank in the praise which she knew was sincere. “Lavinia Frost is really a much more agreeable person to have about than Betsy,” she thought. Those clear eyes of Betsy’s which had always seemed to read her through and through, appeared to her mental vision now as she mounted the stairs after her cousin, and followed her to her room, remaining with her while the visitor repaired the ravages of wind and wave. “Do you think Mrs. Nixon enjoyed the excursion?” asked Mrs. Bruce. Miss Frost raised her hands and dilated her eyes expressively. “I’m afraid not! She’s not a good sailor; but the _young_ people—Oh, what a good time they did have, Laura!” A little contracting pain, grown familiar, seized the listener. “Go on. Tell me about it,” she replied quietly. “Well, you know how _amusing_ Mr. Nixon always is,” began Miss Frost, spreading cold cream over her sunburn; “(so _like_ you, dear Laura, to give me this cream). He and Miss Maynard—such an _elegant_ girl, Miss Maynard—and dear Irving, and that _lovely_ creature Miss Vincent, all four sang together.” “Did they? Did they sing well?”