With the relaxation from strain had come a certain intoxication; but pride kept the girl externally calm. The patronizing Mrs. Bruce would scrutinize her now through those eye-glasses. She should never have a chance to say, “Set a beggar on horseback!” Irving Bruce would, perhaps, become aware of her existence. She exulted in the steadiness with which she had held Robert Nixon at a distance with his amiable raillery. She had done this from politic motives, knowing that if she were to remain in Mrs. Nixon’s good graces, only so could it be accomplished; but now it increased her satisfaction in the consideration of the subtle change in that lady’s manner toward her. What a gulf now between herself and her acquaintance of Lambeth days! Mr. Derwent’s interest in Rosalie had merely served to get her into trouble. Years ago on the farm Miss Maynard’s grandmother had said to her husband:— “Helen’s dreadfully high-headed. I don’t know whatever’ll become of her if she gets all that money.” More than a slight mixture of contempt pervaded her thoughts of Rosalie now. No combination of circumstances would ever have forced _her_ to wait on tourists in the Yellowstone. It did not raise the poor young waitress in Miss Maynard’s regard that Mr. Derwent had been attracted by her, and even claimed relationship. In that particular she shared Mrs. Nixon’s annoyance. Helen thought she might herself do something for Rosalie some day if the girl were really helpless, or had some sad reason for not desiring recognition. In a few short hours Miss Maynard had floated up from the stratum occupied by the under-dog to the vantage-ground of the powerful, and her heart exulted. As soon as she saw the Bruces she knew that they had heard the news. Mrs. Bruce approached her with an alert manner. “I’m delighted to hear of your good fortune, Miss Maynard,” she said briskly; and Helen thanked her demurely. “Do you hurry back to Boston?” added the lady. “Oh, no,” returned Helen quietly. “Mr. Derwent needs his stenographer as much as ever. I am not his only client.” “I suppose not. Ha, ha, pretty good! Well, my dear Miss Maynard, I wish you all prosperity. I’ve always been attracted to you.” “I do think, Irving,” said Mrs. Bruce to her son as they sat at supper, “it’s the strangest thing in the world to see so young a person absolutely stoical at such a time. If it had happened to me at her age I should have called upon everybody to rejoice with me!” “Probably she is to the manner born,” returned Irving absent-mindedly. His thoughts were with the fair-haired girl whose round slender arms were bearing a tray across the dining-room. “That is no work for Miss Vincent,” he observed tentatively. “I don’t think we know,” returned Mrs. Bruce coolly. “You said once,” remarked Betsy quietly, “that Rosalie was an artist; that you always knew ’em when you saw ’em. It does seem queer work for an artist.” Mrs. Bruce stared at her companion in surprise.