Against this there was a quiet protest from Fred, and a louder one from Herbert, who resolved to be ahead of his cousin, and said: “Fred brought you here, but I am to see you home, and must wait till the people from Springfield and Worcester leave, at twelve o’clock. That is not late, and I want you for the next dance.” He looked a little defiantly at Fred, and there was an air of ownership in his manner as he took her on his arm and went back to the piazza, where the awnings were now rolled up to admit the cool night air, and showed nearly as many spectators gathered outside as there were dancers within. It was a brilliant scene, with the lanterns and moonlight, and flowers and music, and gayly dressed people, and Louie was the star around which everything revolved. There was no lack of partners for her, and except when she was singing, she danced every set but one, which she sat through with Herbert, who kept close to her as if she were his particular property. Fred had relinquished the field, and only came near her once when she was sitting with Herbert. There was a sudden lighting up of Louie’s eyes at sight of him, for she had missed him, and, without knowing why, was glad to have him near her, although he said nothing except to ask if she were too tired to give them another song. “Yes, she is,” Herbert answered for her. “We are to have one dance more before the thing breaks up, and then I am to take her home. The walk will do us both good.” “Walk!” Fred repeated, in some surprise. “Walk, and she so tired?” Herbert’s countenance fell, but brightened again when Louie rejoined: “Oh, I’d rather walk; but it is not necessary for you to go with me. The Adams live next to us. I can go with them.” “I’d laugh,” was Herbert’s answer, while Fred turned away without a word, and Louie did not see him again until the party was over and the carriages taking the city guests to the station were rolling down the avenue, and the other people were saying good-night. As the son of the house, Herbert felt obliged to wait until the last guest was gone, so that it was after twelve o’clock when Louie was making her adieus, with Herbert at her side, ready to accompany her home. “I thought you came in my carriage. Why don’t it take you home?” the judge asked, not quite pleased that his son should be the escort, on a half-mile walk, to this girl, who, if she had been instrumental in saving his bank, was still the daughter of Tom Grey, and far beneath him in the social scale. “She prefers to walk, and so do I,” Herbert replied, taking Louie’s arm and leading her to the door, where they found Fred Lansing. Offering his hand to Louie, he said: “I hope you will feel no bad effects from all the excitement and dissipation. If I may, I will call in the afternoon to inquire how you are. Good-by, and pleasant dreams. I rather envy you the walk. It is what one needs after hours of heat and exertion.”