That afternoon, about three o'clock, a carriage bearing Grace Atherton, wound slowly up the hill to Collingwood and when it reached the door a radiant, beautiful woman stepped out, her face all wreathed in smiles and her voice full of sweetness as she greeted Richard, who came forth to meet her. "A pretty march you've stolen upon me," she began, in a light, bantering tone--"you and Edith--never asked my consent or said so much as 'by your leave' but no matter, I congratulate you all the same. I fancied it would end in this. Where is she--the bride- elect?" Richard was stunned with such a volley of words from one whom he supposed ignorant of the matter, and observing his evident surprise Grace continued, "You wonder how I know, Victor told me this morning; he was too much delighted to keep it to himself. But say, where is Edith?" "Here I am," and advancing from the parlor, where she had overheard the whole, Edith laughed a gay, musical laugh, as hollow and meaningless as Mrs. Atherton's forced levity. Had she followed the bent of her inclinations she would not have left her pillow that day, but remembering Victor's words, "Unless I see it's killing you," she felt the necessity of exerting herself, of wearing the semblance of happiness at least, and about noon she had arisen and dressed herself with the utmost care, twining geranium leaves in her hair just as she used to do when going to see Arthur, and letting them droop from among her braids in the way he had told her was so becoming. Then, with flushed cheeks and bright, restless eyes, she went down to Richard, receiving his caresses and partially returning them when she fancied Victor was where he could see her, "Women are queer," he said again to himself, as he saw Edith on Richard's knee, with her arm around his neck. "Their love is like a footprint on the seashore; the first big wave washes it away, and they are ready to make another. I reckon I shan't bother myself about her any more. If she loved Arthur as I thought she did, she couldn't hug another one so soon. It isn't nature--man nature, any way; but Edith's like a reed that bends. That character of Cooper's suits her exactly. I'll call her so to myself hereafter--Reed that bends," and Victor hurried off, delighted with his new name. But if Victor was in a measure deceived by Edith's demeanor, Grace Atherton was not. Women distrust women sooner than men; can read each other better, detect the hidden motive sooner, and ere the two had been five minutes together, Grace had caught a glimpse of the troubled, angry current over which the upper waters rippled so smoothly that none save an accurate observer would have suspected the fierce whirlpool which lay just below the surface. Because, he thought, they would like it better, Richard left the two ladies alone at last and then turning suddenly upon Edith, Grace said, "Tell me, Edith, is your heart in this or have you done it in a fit of desperation?"