shading of a crayon pencil. Heavily fringed lids that lent mysterious
depths to the great brown eyes that were sorrowful beyond their years.
A mouth made for kisses--a perfect Cupid's bow; in color, the red of
the pomegranate--such was Anna Moore, the great lady's young kinswoman,
who was getting her first glimpse of the world this autumn afternoon.

"You were born to be a Harvard girl, Miss Moore, the crimson becomes
you go perfectly, that great bunch of Jacqueminots is just what you
need to bring out the color in your cheeks," said Arnold Lester, rather
an old beau, and one of Mrs. Endicott's devoted cavaliers.

"Miss Moore is making her roses pale with envy," gallantly answered
Robert Maynard. He had not been able to take his eyes from the girl's
face since he met her.

Anna looked down at her roses and smiled. Her gown and gloves were
black. The great fragrant bunch was the only suggestion of color that
she had worn for over a year. She was still in mourning for her
father, one of the first great financial magnates to go under in the
last Wall Street crash. His failure killed him, and the young daughter
and the invalid wife were left practically unprovided for.

Mrs. Tremont could hardly conceal her annoyance. She had met her young
cousin for the first time the preceding summer and taking a fancy to
her; she exacted a promise from the girl's mother that Anna should pay
her a visit the following autumn. But she reckoned without the girl's
beauty and the havoc it would make with her plans. The discussion as
to the roses outvieing Anna's cheeks in color was abruptly terminated
by a great cheer that rolled simultaneously along both sides of the
field as the two teams entered the lists. Cheer upon cheer went up,