this well-like bonnet again confronted him.

"Is that the sort of person I used to be?" she queried, with the
incredulity one naturally feels on being presented with a slightly
exaggerated outline of one's own failings. "What pleasant memories you
must have carried away with you!"

"I did, indeed--myriads of them. Some of the pleasantest were
connected with our last dance together. Do you remember it?"

A slight warmth crept up, not into her cheeks, but into her eyes. "I
have never forgiven you for that," she said.

"And you don't deserve forgiveness," declared Rose, championing the
cause of her friend.

"Ah, well," said the culprit, "perhaps I had better wait till I
deserve it before I plead for it."

How strange and far away, almost like part of their childhood, seemed
the time of which he spoke. Like a painted picture, suddenly thrust
before their view, the scene came back to them. A windy night in late
Autumn, illumined without only by the broad shafts of light from the
Commodore's mansion, and within by the leaping flames in the big hall
fire-place. The young people had improvised a dance in the great hall,
and Helene had tantalizingly bestowed most of her favours upon Fred
Jarvis, a handsome youngster of twenty, who frequently improved his
opportunities of becoming the special object of Edward's boyish
enmity. To fall a willing victim to the pangs of jealousy formed,
however, no part of this young gentleman's intention. Returning late