and meaningless as Mrs. Atherton's forced levity.

Had she followed the bent of her inclinations she would not have
left her pillow that day, but remembering Victor's words, "Unless
I see it's killing you," she felt the necessity of exerting
herself, of wearing the semblance of happiness at least, and about
noon she had arisen and dressed herself with the utmost care,
twining geranium leaves in her hair just as she used to do when
going to see Arthur, and letting them droop from among her braids
in the way he had told her was so becoming. Then, with flushed
cheeks and bright, restless eyes, she went down to Richard,
receiving his caresses and partially returning them when she
fancied Victor was where he could see her,

"Women are queer," he said again to himself, as he saw Edith on
Richard's knee, with her arm around his neck. "Their love is like
a footprint on the seashore; the first big wave washes it away,
and they are ready to make another. I reckon I shan't bother
myself about her any more. If she loved Arthur as I thought she
did, she couldn't hug another one so soon. It isn't nature--man
nature, any way; but Edith's like a reed that bends. That
character of Cooper's suits her exactly. I'll call her so to
myself hereafter--Reed that bends," and Victor hurried off,
delighted with his new name.

But if Victor was in a measure deceived by Edith's demeanor, Grace
Atherton was not. Women distrust women sooner than men; can read
each other better, detect the hidden motive sooner, and ere the
two had been five minutes together, Grace had caught a glimpse of
the troubled, angry current over which the upper waters rippled so