"That girl up stairs--Ruth Richards, she calls herself," the young man
answered, flushing, but speaking with something of defiance in his tone.

"Good gracious, Louis! you cannot mean it!" she exclaimed, aghast. "I
told you I would have no nonsense in that direction. Does she, Ruth,
suspect your folly?"

"Only to toss her head and turn the cold shoulder on me. She is in no way
responsible for my folly, as you call it, except by being so decidedly
pretty. You'd better give in, Aunt Marg--it'll be for your interest not
to make an enemy of me," he quoted, in a peculiar tone, "and it will make
a man of me, too, for I vow I love the girl to distraction."

Mrs. Montague uttered a sigh of despair.

"I was afraid you'd make a fool of yourself over her, and now I shall
have to send the girl away. It is too bad, for she is the only expert
seamstress I have had for a year," she said, tears of vexation actually
rushing to her eyes.

"No, you don't," the young man retorted, flaming up angrily; "don't you
dare to send her away, or I swear I will do something desperate. Besides,
the girl doesn't care a rap for me, but she is dead gone on young Palmer;
and if you drive her away, the next you'll know she will forestall you in
the Palmer mansion."

Mrs. Montague grew pale at this shaft, and sat for several moments
absorbed in thought.

"I thought that he was in love with Walter Dinsmore's _protégée_, Mona