And thus they were betrothed, and they lingered for a few moments under the shadow of the piazza at Oakwood, and whispered anew their vows of love, and when Jack asked it of her, Maude put up her lips and kissed his handsome face, and let her arm linger about his neck, and then started back like a guilty thing, as the door came together with a bang, and she heard the click of the key turning in the lock. It was Georgie fastening up, but she opened the door again at Jack’s call, and looked sharply into their faces as they passed her, but said nothing except, “I supposed everybody was in.” “Tell her, Maude,” Jack said, as he ran up the stairs to his room; while Maude walked leisurely to her own chamber, in which there was a door communicating with Georgie’s apartment. The two girls never slept together, but frequently, when Maude was in a very irrepressible mood, or Georgie unusually amiable and patronizing, they visited each other and talked together while disrobing for the night. Now, however, Maude felt more like communing with the moonlight and whispering her happiness to the soft September wind, which just lifted her bright hair as she leaned from the window, than talking with her future sister-in-law, and she feigned not to hear the knock upon the door and Georgie’s voice asking if she might come in. But when the knock was repeated, and the voice had in it a note of impatience, she opened the door, and Georgie came in, brush and comb in hand, with her long black hair rippling over her crimson dressing-gown with its facings of rich satin. Everything Georgie wore was of the most becoming as well as expensive kind, and she made a very beautiful picture as she sat combing and arranging her glossy curls under a silken net. But there was a strange disquiet about her to-night, a feeling of unrest and vain longing for the years gone forever, the time when she was as young, and fresh, and pure as Maude Somerton or the girl at Leighton Place, who had so disturbed her equanimity, and of whom she had come to speak to Maude. She found it hard, however, to begin, but at last made the attempt by saying: “I say, Maude, what about that young lady at Leighton? Who is she; that is, what is her real name?” “Her real name?” and Maude opened her blue eyes wonderingly. “She is Miss Louise Overton. You have known that all the time. Why do you ask me so queer a question?” “Maude, this will never do,” and Georgie’s eyes had a stony look in them. “You pride yourself on ferreting out things, and you have not been at Rocky Point with the _soi-disant_ Miss Overton so much for nothing. _You_ know who she is, and I know too.” “And pray who is she?” Maude asked, her cheeks flushing and her temper beginning to give way.