Walk in. Ye-as!'

This was the monosyllable with which he finished every sentence, and was
the affirmation to the thought in his mind that he, too, would some day
go down those stairs and into those parlors as a guest, while some other
boy in the upper hall bade the ladies go this way and the gentlemen
that.

It was after nine when Mr. and Mrs. St. Claire arrived, with Squire
Harrington, from Collingwood. Harold had been looking for them, anxious
to see the crimson satin trimmed with ermine, of which Dick had told
him. Many of the guests he had mentally criticised unsparingly, but Mrs.
St. Claire, he knew, was genuine, and his face beamed, when in passing
him, she smiled upon him with her sweet, gracious manner, and said,
pleasantly:

'Good evening, Harold. I knew you were to be here. Dick told me, and he
wanted to come and assist you, but I thought he'd better stay home with
Nina.'

Up to this time no one had spoken to Harold, and he had spoken to no one
except to tell them where to go, but had, as far as possible, followed
Mrs. Tracy's injunction to be a machine. But the machine was getting a
little tired. It was hard work to stand for two hours or more, and Mrs.
Tracy had impressed it upon him that he was not to sit down. But when
Mrs. St. Claire came from the dressing-room and stood before him a
moment in her crimson satin and pearls, he forgot his weariness and
forgot that he was not to talk, and said to her, involuntarily:

'Oh, Mrs. St. Claire, how handsome you look! Handsomer than anybody yet,