Mrs. Pogram had often in past days spoken to Betsy of her husband’s distant relatives the Vincents, once wealthy and highly placed, then reduced to financial ruin, illness, and death, leaving this pretty blossom alone on the family tree. The good lady had often mentioned, as being to Rosalie’s credit, that she was without false pride or foolish reverting to the past of her luxurious childhood; and the situation had appealed to whatever was romantic in Betsy Foster’s breast. There had always been for her some atmosphere about Rosalie Vincent as of the exiled Princess in servitude, and the sweetness with which the girl undertook Mrs. Pogram’s drudgery had oftentimes excited an admiration in Betsy which she never put into words. She fought now with a sense of pathos that Rosalie should be hurrying back and forth under the orders of hungry travelers. Irving commented at supper upon Betsy’s sociability with the pretty waitress in the stage, and some instinct bade the good woman guard her secret. “She is a very intelligent girl,” Betsy replied. “It seems it’s quite a common thing for nice poor girls to see the Park in this way.” “A very good idea, too,” remarked Mrs. Bruce. “Just as the college boys wait on table in the White Mountain resorts.” Betsy breathed more freely. If Mrs. Bruce were going to approve this move of Rosalie’s, it would be a relief. Fully able to fight her own battles, she shrank sensitively from hearing this girl discussed and criticised. “That’s what I say, too,” she returned. “I think it shows good courage in a girl to strike out and see something of the world. It shows character and enterprise.” Irving looked at his old friend curiously. It was unlike her to express so much. It was some embarrassment to Betsy to take her meals with her employers, as the herding together of crowds for food on this trip made necessary; and this was the first time she had opened her lips voluntarily at table. In the mean time Rosalie was again winning laurels from the Nixons, and Helen Maynard looked up at her as she gave her orders. When the party left the table, Helen lagged behind. “Miss Vincent, Rosalie,” she said low to the waitress, “don’t you remember me at Lambeth?” Rosalie colored. “Yes; but please don’t remember me!” she returned. Helen eyed her sharply. “I mean it,” said Rosalie. “You’re very kind, but I’ll tell you some time.” She turned away, and Robert Nixon advanced toward them. “Pardon me, Miss Maynard, I thought you were ahead of me.” Then when they had moved toward the door, he laughed. “Have you caught the infection? Mother is gravely considering getting the girl’s address and having her come to Boston.” “She blushed like the traditional rose when I spoke to her,” returned Helen, and said no more.