Rebecca was now sixteen, and of all the handsome Pagets the best to look upon. She was dressed according to her youthful lights; every separate article of her apparel to-day, from her rowdyish little hat to her openwork hose, represented a battle with Mrs. Paget's preconceived ideas as to propriety in dress, with the honors largely for Rebecca. Rebecca had grown up, in eight months, her sister thought, confusedly; she was no longer the adorable, un-self-conscious tomboy who fought and skated and toboganned with the boys. "Hello, darling dear!" said Rebecca. "Too bad no one met you! We all thought you were coming on the six. Crazy about your suit! Here's Maudie Pratt. You know Maudie, don't you, Mark?" Margaret knew Maudie. Rebecca's infatuation for plain, heavy-featured, complacent Miss Pratt was a standing mystery in the Paget family. Margaret smiled, bowed. "I think we stumbled upon a pretty little secret of yours to-day, Miss Margaret," said Maudie, with her best company manner, as they walked along. Margaret raised her eyebrows. "Rebel and I," Maudie went on,--Rebecca was at the age that seeks a piquant substitute for an unpoetical family name,--"Rebel and I are wondering if we may ask you who Mr. John Tenison is?" John Tenison! Margaret's heart stood still with a shock almost sickening, then beat furiously. What--how--who on earth had told them anything of John Tenison? Coloring high, she looked sharply at Rebecca. "Cheer up, angel," said Rebecca, "he's not dead. He sent a telegram to-day, and Mother opened it--" "Naturally," said Margaret, concealing an agony of impatience, as Rebecca paused apologetically. "He's with his aunt, at Dayton, up the road here," continued Rebecca; "and wants you to wire him if he may come down and spend tomorrow here." Margaret drew a relieved breath. There was time to turn around, at least. "Who is he, sis?" asked Rebecca.