"I could not help it, Roland; it seems so strange to think of Madeline Hamilton turning authoress." "It does not seem strange to me; I always believed that you were born for something very good, Madeline; now I want you to tell me all about your little school, and the poor people around Woodcliff." And Madeline entered into an animated description of all that had been attempted; so artless, so naive was her account, so modest, and yet so frank, that Roland felt as if he was seated once more by the bright child of the sea-shore; but when he remembered that years had passed since then, and that the broad gulf of wealth and rank forbade the free, charming intercourse of those young days; he checked expressions that would have arisen to his lips, and hushed the wild beating of his heart, awakening to the sense of danger, that attended such an interview as this. "You promise to write the story, Madeline, remember." "Yes, I promise anything,"----and she checked the remaining words trembling on her lips,--"to you." They forgot the passing of time in this sweet communion, until Charles Davenport came up to Madeline, and laying his hand upon her arm, said, haughtily, "Are you aware, Madeline, how long you have been absent from your party?" "Are you aware that you are interrupting my conversation with an old friend?" "An old friend, indeed! May I ask the name?" "Mr. Bruce, Charles Davenport." "How long since you resigned your post at college, sir?" "What post, Mr. Davenport?" "That which you held when I was a member of that college." Roland did not answer--indignation was too strong; but Madeline did. "I understand your insinuation, sir; how dare you insult Roland Bruce? You cannot lower him; you have tried it too often, and failed." Poor Madeline! aware of the hot blood that was mounting to her face, she covered it with her hands, and murmured, "Begone, Charles Davenport; you make me forget that I am a woman; I am so ashamed, what shall I do?" and she burst into tears of wounded modesty. Charles went off whistling. "Quite a scene with that upstart fellow!" Roland stood by Madeline, scarcely knowing what to say. He was aware that her innate sense of propriety had been greatly outraged by the words which in her impetuosity she had uttered; he stood silent for one minute, then taking her hand, said, "I understand your generous nature, Madeline; I thank you more than words can express." "I am humbled, mortified at my impetuosity; do not think me destitute of modesty, Roland." "You, Madeline! you know not what you are saying--be satisfied when I say that if the expression of the deepest respect that ever filled the heart of man can relieve your wounded pride, it is all your own." "Thank you, Roland; I could not bear to lose your respect; let me always deserve that." Taking her hand, and placing it within his arm, he led her to her party, saying,