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.

It was Maggie's first introduction into society, and yet so perfect
was her intuition of what was proper that neither by word or deed did
she do aught to shock the most fastidious. It is true her merry laugh