too small fishes for her net, or they saw through her little deceits and tired of a beauty behind which there was so much that was not real. Now, however, she meant to succeed, and laid her plans accordingly. She was twenty-three; she was poor; she hated her humble home. She wanted to marry, and if she could win Reginald Travers she would do so and lay all the blame of the deception on Rena, who had persuaded her to it. There were a few days spent in New York with Rena, whom she thought a little mopish and stupid and not at all like the bright, sunny girl she had always known. Rena was beginning to wish she were not going to Oakfield, and that she had written frankly to Mr. Travers that she withdrew from the marriage proposition, leaving the field to him. Mingled with this was a thought of Tom, whose good opinion was everything to her. She had displeased him and he had scolded her. “Called me a liar,” she said often to herself; “and I hate him, and sometimes I don’t care whether his bosom friend is wronged or not.” This was Rena’s attitude and feeling when with Irene she took her seat in the train which was to take her to Oakfield, the last place in the world she would have chosen for her summer outing, if it had not been for that wretched will. Irene was in high spirits. Her two large trunks were full of foreign dresses and a number of articles bought in New York with Rena’s money. She wore a tailor-made suit from Redfern’s, London. Her tall collar and shirt-waist and boots were up to date. The feather, or quill in her hat was exquisite in its kind; her manner was _à la duchesse_ to perfection, and had a stranger been told that here were a grand lady and maid he would have had no hesitancy in identifying Irene as the lady and Rena as the maid, in her travelling-dress of dark-blue serge, her sailor hat with only a plain band of ribbon upon it, and her modest and quiet manner. Rena was not very happy. The experiment did not look to her as it did before she received Tom’s letter. The word liar kept sounding in her ears, and but for Irene she would have ended the farce. But Irene’s influence was over her, keeping her silent and rather moody until the train stopped before the little way station where the McPherson carriage was waiting. When “Oakfield!” was shouted at the door of the car a young man arose and came forward, offering to take their parcels. It was Sam Walker, who was returning from a neighboring town. He had heard from Lottie of the expected arrivals that day and the moment he entered the car and saw the two young ladies he said, under his breath, “That’s them, and gewhitaker-whiz, ain’t she a stunner!” the “she” referring to Irene, whom he singled out as the Miss Burdick about whom Lottie was so curious.