When Nellie Freeman was talking her companions usually listened to her, and they did so now, laughing at her enthusiasm, and asking several questions concerning the strangers who had interested her so much. Magdalen said nothing, and her cheek turned pale for an instant as something in Nellie’s description of the younger gentleman made her wonder if the strangers could be Frank and Roger. But no: they could not have reached New York yet, and if they had, they would not come on to Charlestown without apprising her of their intentions, unless they wished to see her first without being themselves seen. The very idea of the latter possibility made Magdalen faint, and she asked if one of the gentlemen was “oldish looking?” “No, both young, decidedly so,” was Nellie’s reply, which decided the matter for Magdalen. It was not Roger Irving. She had seen no picture of him since the one sent her six years ago, and judging him by herself he must have changed a great deal since then. To girls of eighteen, thirty-two seems old; and Roger was thirty-two, and consequently old, and very patriarchal, in Magdalen’s estimation. There were some gray hairs in his head, and he began to stoop, and wear glasses when he read, if the print was fine and the light dim, she presumed. Nellie’s hero was not Roger, and Magdalen arranged the flowers in her hair, and smoothed the long curls which fell upon her neck, and clasped her gold bracelets on her arms, and then, when it was time, appeared before the assembled crowd, who hailed her with acclamations of joy, and when her brilliant performance at the piano was ended, sent after her such cheers as called her back again, not to play this time, but merely to bow before the audience, which showered her with bouquets. Very gracefully she acknowledged the compliment paid to her, and then retired, her cheeks burning scarlet and her heart throbbing painfully as she thought of the face which she had seen far back among the spectators, just before she left the stage. Was it Frank who was standing on his feet and applauding her so heartily, and was that Roger beside him? If so, she could never face that crowd again and sing Kathleen Mavourneen. And yet she must. They were calling for her now, and with a tremendous effort of the will she quieted her beating heart and went again before the people. But she did not look across the room toward the two figures in the corner. She only knew there was a movement in that direction as if some person or persons were going out, just as she took her place by the piano. At first her voice trembled a little, but gradually it grew steadier, clearer, and more bird-like in its tones, while the people listened breathlessly, and tears-rushed to the eyes of some as she threw her whole soul into the pathetic words, “It may be for years and it may be forever.” She did not think of the possible presence of Roger and Frank then. She was thinking