“I often think,” pursued Louis, whose natural turn for speculative philosophy had been decidedly fostered by intercourse with Ernest Clare,—“I often think, Aenchen, when people talk about being disappointed and deceived in their friends, that it is not really so. One may be deceived _by_ a person one loves, not _in_ him. For what gives and attracts love is the real self, independent of all accidents; and, sin being not a part of that self, it follows that when we meet in that happy world the false friend of earth, we shall recognize the self we really loved, and feel that the deceit was in our bad opinion of him, not in our good one.” “That is very beautiful,” murmured Annie. And while he was smiling at her in all the pleasure of sympathy and comprehension, and she gazing into his face with eyes that half betrayed her wonder what Louis’ real self _could_ be, since his present and apparent self was so bright and beautiful,—at this moment there passed them alight, open buggy, wherein sat Edgar Harrison and a small figure in black, whose brown eyes took in the full significance of the sight presented to them. “Your friend, the handsome young shoemaker, and his sweetheart,” said Edgar Harrison. “I suppose they are awfully happy; don’t you?” “Really, I don’t know; I can’t pretend to understand the feelings of that sort of people,” said Miss Randolph haughtily. Edgar watched her with quiet amusement. He was not at all afraid of Louis as a rival, though admitting that in a higher station of life he might have been dangerous. “Well, they look pretty happy,” he said. Pinkie shrugged her shoulders, a gesture she had learned in Paris, without reply; but her first act, upon reaching her own room, was to throw aside her crape-trimmed hat, and study her own pretty face reflected in the glass, as attentively as if it had been the Rosetta stone or a Babylonian cylinder. Then the red lips curved into a triumphant smile. “I’ll settle him,” said Pinkie, with a toss of her head. The next afternoon was what she herself called “hideously warm;” and therefore her prettiest white dress, a marvel of lace and embroidery, was evidently just the thing to wear. There was not a touch of black about it; and the creamy softness brought out every tint of the rich brunette coloring, and softened the vivacious girlish beauty into something infinitely charming. She fastened a knot of fragrant tea-rosebuds in her belt, and then, taking her wide-brimmed Leghorn hat in her hand, announced to the housekeeper her intention of walking round to take tea with her aunt, Mrs. Richards. “It is too hot for dinner, and so you may tell papa and Frank when they come home,” said Pinkie audaciously; “but you might order a freezer of cream to be sent around to Dr. Richards’s; harlequin, mind, chocolate, vanilla, strawberry, and orange ice. Don’t forget.” “From Prices’?” asked the housekeeper. “Your papa won’t like your being away at dinner, Miss Pinkie.”