Madam Conway bit her lip, but Mr. Carrollton, who was prepared for anything from Maggie Miller, was not in the least displeased, and, consulting his diamond-set watch, which pointed to nearly ten, he asked if it were not time to go. "Certainly," said Madam Conway. "You remain here, Maggie; I will bring down your shawl," and she glided from the room, leaving them purposely alone. Maggie was a good deal astonished, slightly embarrassed, and a little provoked, all of which Arthur Carrollton readily saw; but this did not prevent his talking to her, and during the few minutes of Madam Conway's absence he decided that neither Margaret's beauty, nor yet her originality, had been overrated by her partial grandmother, while Maggie, on her part, mentally pronounced him "the finest-looking, the most refined, the most gentlemanly, the proudest, and the hatefulest man she had ever seen!" Wholly unconscious of her cogitation, he wrapped her shawl very carefully about her, taking care to cover her white shoulders from the night air; then offering his arm to her grandmother, he led the way to the carriage, whither she followed him, wondering if Henry would be jealous, and thinking her first act would be to tell him how she hated Arthur Carrollton, and always should! * * * * * It was a gay, brilliant scene which Mrs. Morton's drawing room presented; and, as yet the center of attraction, Theo, near the door, was bowing to the many strangers who sought her acquaintance. Greatly she marveled at the long delay of her grandmother and Maggie, and she had just suggested to Henry that he should go in quest of them, when she saw her sister ascending the stairs. On a sofa across the room sat a pale young girl arrayed in white, her silken curls falling around her neck like a golden shower, and her mournful eyes of blue scanning eagerly each newcomer, then a look of disappointment drooping beneath the long lashes which rested wearily upon her colorless cheek. It was Rose Warner, and the face she sought was Maggie Miller's. She had seen no semblance of it yet, for Henry had no daguerreotype. Still, she felt sure she would know it, and when at last, in all her queenly beauty, Maggie came, leaning on Arthur Carrollton's arm, Rose's heart made ready answer to the oft-repeated question, "Who is she?" "Beautiful, gloriously beautiful!" she whispered softly, while from the grave of her buried hopes there came one wild heart-throb, one sudden burst of pain caused by the first sight of her rival, and then Rose Warner grew calm again, and those who saw the pressure of her hand upon her side dreamed not of the fierce pang within. She had asked her brother not to tell Maggie she was to be there. She would rather watch her a while, herself unknown; and now with eager, curious eyes she followed Maggie, who was quickly surrounded by a host of admirers.