Springing up from her chair, Miss Prall darted from the room, and out into the hall. Down one flight of stairs she ran, and furiously pealed the bell of Mrs Everett’s apartment on the floor below. The maid who opened the door was startled at the visitor’s appearance, but the angry caller asked for no one; she pushed her way past the servant, and faced Mrs Everett in her own reception room. “Do you know what’s going on, Adeline Everett? Do you know that your daughter is—is interested in my nephew? Answer me that!” “I don’t know it, and I don’t believe it,” returned Mrs Everett, a plump, blonde matron, whose touched-up golden hair was allowed to show no gray, and whose faintly pink cheeks were solicitously cared for. “Ask her!” quivered Letitia Prall’s angry voice, and she clenched her long thin fingers in ill-controlled rage. “I will; she’s in the next room. Come in here, Dorcas. Tell Miss Prall she is mistaken,—presumptuously mistaken.” The haughty stare with which the hostess regarded her guest continued until Dorcas, coming in, said, with a pretty blush and smile, “I’m afraid she isn’t mistaken, Mother.” “Just what do you mean?” Mrs Everett asked, icily, transferring her gaze to her daughter. Very sweet and appealing Dorcas looked as she realized the crucial moment had arrived. Now she must take her stand for all time. Her big, dark eyes turned from one furious face to the other as the two women waited her response. Her face paled a little as she saw their attitude, their implacable wrath, their hatred of each other, and their momentarily suspended judgment of herself. Yet she stood her ground. With a pretty dignity, she spoke quietly and in a calm, steady voice: “I heard what Miss Prall said,” she began, “I couldn’t help it, as I was so near, and all I can say is, that it is true. I am not only interested in Richard Bates, but I love him. He loves me,—and we hope—oh, mumsie,—be kind!—we hope you two will make up your quarrel for our sakes!” “Go to your room, Dorcas,” her mother said, and in those words the girl read her doom. She knew her mother well, and she saw beyond all shadow of doubt that there was no leniency to be hoped for. She sensed in her mother’s expression as she pronounced the short sentence, an absolute and immutable decision. She might as well plead for the moon, as for her mother’s permission to be interested in Letitia Prall’s nephew. “Wait a minute,” countermanded Miss Prall. “Answer me this, Dorcas. Are you and my nephew engaged? Has it come to that?” “Yes,” the girl answered, thinking quickly, and deciding it best to force the issue. “Hush!” commanded her mother; “go to your room!” Mrs Everett fairly pushed her daughter through the door, closed it, and then said: “There is little need of further remark on this subject. We might have known it would come,—at least we might have feared it. One of us must leave this house. Will you go or shall I?” “You take no thought of the young people’s heart-break?”