door. They were subscribers, and the office was not for them.

He went up to the gallery to await his friend. It was less than a fourth
occupied by pretty girls--"natives," he recognized at once. Some wore
hats, others were in local substitute for full dress--a muslin or Indian
silk turned away at the throat, a flower in the hair. He took a chair
before the railing. The one beside him was occupied by a handsome
dark-eyed girl who had made a brave attempt to be smart. She wore a red
silk frock and a red rose in her rough abundant hair. Round her white
throat she had gracefully arranged some silk lace. Andrew paid that
tribute to her charms of one whose eyes have been too long accustomed to
great works of art to take any interest in the chromo. Nevertheless, he
was young and she was young. They flirted mildly until Chapman came in
and introduced them.

"Miss Leslie is an old friend of mine, Webb," he said in his hearty way.
"I hope you will be friends too."

Miss Leslie bowed and beamed and flashed her pretty teeth. Andrew made
some vague remark, wondering at the spite of fate, then forgot her
utterly. Chapman had whispered to him that the cottagers were coming.

He leaned eagerly over the rail. A number of buxom dames, accompanied by
slender girls, were filing in. Some of the old women were in white
satin, with many jewels on their platitudinous bosoms. The slim
sisterhood, with their deerlike movements, their curried hair arranged
to simulate a walnut on the crown of their little heads, their tiny
waists and white necks and arms, riveted Andrew's gaze as ever. Some
looked like Easter lilies in their pure white gowns, others like
delicate orchids. One beautiful young woman, evidently a matron, wore a