Maggie had often waltzed with Henry at home. He saw no harm in it, and
now when Arthur Carrollton objected, she was provoked, while at the
same time she felt constrained to decline.

"Some time, when I know you better, I will explain to you why I do
not think it proper for young girls to waltz with everyone," said Mr.
Carrollton; and, leading her from the drawing room, he devoted himself
to her for the remainder of the evening, making himself so perfectly
agreeable that Maggie forgot everything, even Henry Warner, who in
the meantime had tried to obtain recognition from Madam Conway as an
acquaintance.

A cool nod, however, was all the token of recognition she had to give
him. This state of feeling augured ill for the success of his suit;
but when at a late hour that night, in spite of grandmother or
Englishman, he handed Maggie to the carriage, he whispered to her
softly, "I will see her to-morrow morning, and know the worst."

The words caught the quick ear of Madam Conway; but, not wishing
Mr. Carrollton to know there was anything particular between her
granddaughter and Henry Warner, she said nothing, and when, arrived at
last at the hotel, she asked an explanation, Maggie, who hurried off
to bed, was too sleepy to give her any answer.

"I shall know before long, anyway, if he sees me in the morning," she
thought, as she heard a distant clock strike two, and settling her
face into the withering frown with which she intended to annihilate
Henry Warner, the old lady was herself ere long much faster asleep
than the young girl at her side, who was thinking of Henry Warner,