“Rhoda! How good of you to come--and to wear that dress! You’re like a ray of sunshine on this dark day! I’ve listened and hoped for you all day, and at last you’re here! You’re such a busy person, Rhoda, that I ought to feel fortunate to get even a little of your time. What have you been doing all the morning? All manner of things?” “Yes,--no--that is--yes, I’ve been busy,--I always am, you know,” she stammered, confused, remembering how idle her morning had been. “I’ve been with father part of the time,” she went on, recovering her self-possession, “talking about the elections to-day.” “What do you care about the elections?” he demanded, in bantering gaiety. She turned to him with proud gravity. “More than I do about anything else in the world.” Quickly his expression changed to one as serious as her own, and he began to speak of the situation in Pennsylvania and of his own belief in the success of the Democratic state ticket. She listened for a few sentences and then her heart began to clamor for signs of love in his face and voice and words. She ignored the fact that she had forbidden all such manifestation and knew only that she wanted it and it was not there. All unknown to her, in his gladness at her coming her lover was having his own battle with himself to do her bidding, and was so fearful lest he should overstep the line she had drawn and lose her dear presence that he was plunging into this political discourse as the safest thing he could do. She seemed to be paying close attention, but she heard only a word or a part of a sentence here and there. Instead, vague fears, half-realized doubts, uncertain questions filled her brain. Would she ever again see that look in his face? Did he ever look at Charlotte like that? Was his love for her all gone so soon? And then the spirit of the eternal feminine began to assert itself in her breast. She was, after all, her mother’s daughter, and although the spirit of coquetry lay deep within her breast, so deep that only the call of truest love could bring it to the surface, yet it was there and it came now to do her heart’s bidding. It was all done instinctively, without conscious intention. But if her mother or sister could have looked through the wall they would have been surprised by the sight of a different Rhoda from the one they knew. This tender creature of coquettish graces and alluring smiles and eyelids quickly lowered over ardent glances--was she the practical, efficient daughter of the house, upon whom they were both so dependent? Delavan gazed at her, began to stumble over his sentences, confused the names of the people of whom he spoke, broke off for an instant, went back and started anew, then stopped abruptly in the middle of a sentence. “Rhoda Ware,” he exclaimed in a low voice that shook with feeling.