“Oh, Mrs. Wylde, I am so glad to see you--and you, too, Rosalind. Oh, Judge Wylde, it was so kind of you and Norman to come!” rattled quickly from Juliette’s lips, as she hastened to welcome the newcomers. Colonel Falconer also greeted the visitors as if they were old friends, and hastened to present his wife. She, the poor little factory girl whom they had scorned, stood by her husband’s side like a queen, and greeted his friends with a calm and stately dignity that made a profound impression. She glanced only slightly at Norman Wylde, or she would have seen that he was terribly agitated. When their hands touched each other both were cold as ice. When all were seated, Pansy saw that he had retreated to a distant corner, and, as the conversation proceeded, he took little or no part in it. He was almost stricken speechless by her marvelous likeness to one he had loved and lost, and, but for the interval for thought afforded him while she was singing, he could not have preserved his calmness; he must have spoken out on the spur of the moment, and claimed her, as Mr. Finley had done, as Pansy Laurens. When he had first beheld the beautiful face in profile from the door his senses had almost reeled; but before her song ceased he had persuaded himself that he was mistaken in thinking her the counterpart of Pansy. She was more beautiful, more distinguished-looking. Pansy had been very shy and bashful, but this girl held her small head high. There was a likeness--a great one--but nothing more. One was the wayside rose, the other the cultivated flower. From his distant seat he watched the lovely face and form with a throbbing heart. How the rich, creamy-hued robe and diamond locket set off the flowerlike face, with its background of dark, rippling hair. The beautiful white hands played with some rose petals she had plucked from her belt, and he noticed how small they were, with pink palms and finger tips, dimpled at the joint, like a child’s. Pansy had had just such dainty hands, although she was only a working girl. “I wish I had not come,” he thought, with bitter pain. “Mrs. Falconer’s face has brought everything back. Oh, how am I to bear it? Does Juliette see the likeness, I wonder? Surely not, or else she could scarcely endure to be haunted so by the image of one she hated.” Pansy, on her part, felt a bitter triumph in seeing that he took such slight notice of Juliette. Surely he did not care for her, else his eyes would have wandered to her face sometimes, for it was plain to be seen that she worshiped him. “He does not care for her,” Pansy said to herself, as she saw how carelessly he answered the remarks Juliette addressed to him. “He has a fickle heart.”