incidentally as the photograph of a mere acquaintance. And while he was thus thinking he heard in the distance Bee’s voice, and lifting up his head he saw her coming down the long walk gayly and airily, in her pretty white muslin dress, with a bit of pink coral in her ears and in the lace bow at her throat. One could see that she was a saucy, fun-loving, frolicsome girl, with opinions of her own, which sometimes startled the staid ones who walked year by year in the same rut, but she was every whit a lady, and looked it, too, as she came rapidly toward Everard, who found himself studying and criticising her as he had never criticised a woman before. She was not like Josephine, though wherein the difference consisted he could not tell. He only knew that the load at his heart was heavier than ever, and that he almost felt that in some way he was aggrieved by this young girl, who, when she saw him, hastened her steps and was soon at his side. “Oh, here you are,” she said, “Rossie told me I should find you in the garden. I came to inquire after that broken head, for which I feel responsible. Why, Ned,” she continued, calling him by the old familiar name of his boyhood, “how white you are! I am afraid it was more serious than I supposed;” and she looked anxiously into his pale, worn face. His head was aching terribly, but he would not acknowledge it. He only said he was a little tired, that the cut on his forehead was nothing, and would soon be well; then, making Beatrice sit down beside him, he began to ask her numberless questions about the people of Rothsay, especially the young ladies. Where was Sylvia Blackmer, and where was Annie Doane, and, by the way, where was Allie Beadle, that pretty little blonde, with the great blue eyes, who used to sing in the choir. “By Jove, she was pretty,” he said, “except that her hair was a little too yellow. She looks so much like a girl east that some of the college boys rave about, only this girl, Miss Fleming, is the prettier of the two. I shouldn’t wonder if I had her photograph somewhere. She had a lot taken and gave me one. Yes, here it is,” he continued, after a feint of rummaging his pocket-book. “What do you think of her?” he asked, passing the picture to Beatrice, and feeling himself a monster of duplicity and deception. Bee took the card, and looking at it a moment, said: “Yes, she is very pretty; but you don’t want anything to do with that girl. She is not like you.” It was the old story repeated, and Everard felt nettled and annoyed, but managed not to show it, as he replied: “Who said I did want anything to do with her? But honestly, though, what do you see in her to dislike?” “Nothing to dislike,” Bee said, “I do not fancy her make-up, that’s all. She looks as if she would wear cotton lace!” and having said what in her estimation was the worst thing she could say of a woman, Beatrice handed him back the picture, which he put up silently, feeling that he could not tell Beatrice of Josey.