Gipsy looked at the party with keen admiration. All the girls were pretty, all the men were handsome, but her dark eyes lingered longest on Laurie Willoughby, following him until they were out of sight down the winding road. “How princely!” she thought, with the secret romance of a girl’s heart. She thought Lelia Ritchie the most fortunate of mortals to have handsome Laurie for her lover. From her childhood he had been almost unconsciously to herself the ideal hero of all her dreams. “All the hues of old romances By his actual self grew dim.” As Laurie had said lightly to Lelia, the waif had been in love with them both all her life. The glamour of beauty and fortune and romantic love had invested them in Gipsy’s eyes with a golden haze. It was Lelia’s own fault that the shining veil was rent, and that Gipsy learned to secretly dread and despise her, while her worship of Laurie grew with her growth and strengthened with every sight of him in his young, debonair beauty. His voice sounded like music in her ears, his smile made her heart thrill with subtle happiness. She thought that Lelia was the most fortunate and happy girl in the world, to be the chosen of his heart, to have the high privilege of being always near him, and gazing at will on his faultless face, with its thoughtful, dark-brown eyes and grave, tender lips. She did not realize that she was beginning to have him always in her thoughts, to brood over the tones of his voice, the glances of his eyes, to thrill with a subtle, dangerous tenderness at sound of his name. Yet she had not much to dwell upon, poor Gipsy, for Miss Willoughby, dreading Lelia’s jealousy, had not even permitted her nephew any manifestation of his gratitude for Gipsy’s nobility. When he had consulted her as to what visible form this gratitude might be permitted to take, she had bluntly replied: “You cannot afford to make any sign of your gratitude, Laurie, for Lelia, in her blind jealousy, would persist in misconstruing even a kind word. Leave all to me. I will reward Gipsy.” “Must I seem ungrateful?” he remonstrated. “Better so,” she replied. So between his aunt’s prudence and his betrothed’s jealousy he had to keep silence. But somehow Gipsy knew from what had already passed all the gratitude in his heart. She had always felt subtly that it was Lelia who prevented him from having a frank friendship for her, and she bowed in silent regret to the inevitable. He was Lelia’s, to do with as she willed, and the imperious young beauty never allowed him to wander from his allegiance. Already there were rumors among the servants that Miss Ritchie held a tight rein over her lover, and privately berated him for any suspected flirtations with the other fair ones who composed the party.