"I think I spoke hastily to you. I said one or two things that I regret. I had no right to speak to you as I did," said Mrs. Wentworth. "No, I do not think you had," said Lois, gravely; "but I will try and never think of it again, but only of your kindness to me." Suddenly, to her astonishment, Mrs. Wentworth burst out weeping. "You are all against me," she exclaimed--"all! You are all so hard on me!" Lois sprang toward her, her face full of sudden pity. "Why, Cousin Louise!" "You are all deserting me. What shall I do! I am so wretched! I am so lonely--so lonely! Oh, I wish I were dead!" sobbed the unhappy woman. "Then, maybe, some one might be sorry for me even if they did not love me." Lois slipped her arm around her and drew her to her, as if their ages had been reversed. "Don't cry, Cousin Louise. Calm yourself." Lois drew her down to a sofa, and kneeling beside her, tried to comfort her with tender words and assurances of her affection. "There, Cousin Louise, I do love you--we all love you. Cousin Norman loves you." Mrs. Wentworth only sobbed her dissent. "I will stay. I will not go," said Lois. "If you want me." The unhappy woman caught her in her arms and thanked her with a humility which was new to the girl. And out of the reconciliation came a view of her which Lois had never seen, and which hardly any one had seen often. CHAPTER XXXI TERPY'S LAST DANCE AND WICKERSHAM'S FINAL THROW Curiously enough, the interview between Mrs. Lancaster and Lois brought them closer together than before. The older woman seemed to find a new pleasure in the young girl's society, and as often as she could she had the girl at her house. Sometimes, too, Keith was of the party. He held himself in leash, and hardly dared face the fact that he had once more entered on the lane which, beginning among flowers, had proved so thorny in the end. Yet more and more he let himself drift into that sweet atmosphere whose light was the presence of Lois Huntington. One evening they all went together to see a vaudeville performance that was being much talked about. Keith had secured a box next the stage. The theatre was crowded. Wickersham sat in another box with several women, and Keith was aware that he was covertly watching his party. He had never appeared gayer or been handsomer. The last number but one was a dance by a new danseuse, who, it was stated in the playbills, had just come over from Russia. According to the reports, the Russian court was wild about her, and she had left Europe at the personal request of the Czar. However this might be, it appeared that she could dance. The theatre was packed nightly, and she was the drawing-card.