contrast to herself, wholly fixed her attention as she stood for a few
moments, like a queen, surrounded by her courtiers.

Graydon had gone for a glass of water, and meeting a friend had been
detained for a brief space. Madge saw him coming, saw his eye light up
with admiration as he caught sight of the beautiful stranger, but he
came directly to her, and asked, genially, if there was anything else
she would like.

"Yes. Who is that girl yonder?"

"Miss Wildmere. Isn't she lovely? She promised me, last week, her
first dance for this evening. Will you excuse me for a little while?"

"Certainly;" and yet she was conscious of a sudden and odd little
protest at heart.

He approached the beauty. Miss Wildmere's face flushed with pleasure
and softened into a welcoming smile, such as she had not yet bestowed
upon any who had sought her favor. Then, in swift alternation, she
bent upon Madge a brief, cold glance of scrutiny. So brief was it, and
so complacent was the expression of the belle as she turned away, that
the pallid, sensitive girl was told, as by words, "You are nothing."

That glance was like a sharp, deep wound, and pierced where she
was most vulnerable. It said to her, "You are not capable of being
anything to Graydon Muir. I am not in the least afraid of you."

What was she to him? What did she wish to be? To these questions Madge
had but one answer. Any and every girl, in her belief, would be only