“Oh! a blue-stocking!” cried the gay girl, with well-affected horror; and just here another voice chimed in—a voice which made Mr. Rosevelt start and listen more intently: “Miss Gladstone! How strange I never heard the author’s name before! There was only a simple star upon the title page where the author’s name should have been. Mamma!” in a startled tone, as if a strange idea had suddenly come into the speaker’s mind, “it cannot possibly be _Stella Gladstone_, can it?” “Certainly not,” returned Mrs. Richards—for both she and Josephine were among the group referred to, having come from a neighboring hotel to attend the hop. “Such a thing cannot be possible; _she_ could not write a book.” The woman spoke contemptuously, and yet the utterance of that name produced an uneasy sensation in her mind. “What is the gentleman’s name? Whose ward did you say she is?” she asked, a moment later, thinking that would throw some light on the subject. “I declare I have forgotten,” the gentleman returned; “it’s a high-sounding name, though, and he is an aristocratic-looking old fellow, too. By the way, Miss Richards,” he continued, turning to the young lady, “I am willing to wager a handsome fan against a new pair of gloves that Miss Gladstone’s phaeton and pair of ponies will be the envy of every lady in Newport, for a more trappy turn-out I’ve never seen in my life.” “Then she drives her own ponies, does she? Well, I must say you have aroused my curiosity to the highest notch, and I’d like to see this paragon of perfection, Mr. Pendleton,” Josephine said, a feeling of jealousy springing up in her heart at hearing another’s praises sounded so profusely. “You can be gratified, for there she stands now—that slight, graceful girl in the cream-colored silk trimmed with pansies,” replied Mr. Pendleton, drawing her attention to the spot where Star stood surrounded by an admiring crowd. Her back was turned toward them, and they could not judge of her beauty; but they saw a tall, willowy figure in trailing robes of exceeding richness, a stately head crowned with golden hair, and there was a familiar something about the fair stranger which made both mother and daughter look more closely, while their eyes were filled with anxious foreboding. “She is elegantly dressed, I must confess,” Josephine said, putting up her glass to get a better view of the “belle of the evening;” “and, mamma,” she added, in a lower tone, “is it my imagination, or is there something really familiar in that figure? _Can it be Stella?_” “Impossible! What could have put such a foolish notion into your head? Where under heavens could _she_ get money enough to flourish in such style?” Mrs. Richards retorted, impatiently. “But if she is really the author of the book—it has been very popular, you know——” “Nonsense!” interrupted her mother. “I tell you such a thing could not be possible.”