Year: 1876

uPou uor SraOc ahu CoLupic4iou.


Ireno Wolf in her midsummer
experience, thought that watering
place life was an episode of para
disc. But the serpent always
crawls into Eden. And in Irene's
paradise the intruder had, as in
Raphaels picture, a woman's face.


Miss Hammond thought it her
duty to confide to Miss Wolf a Sc
cret that had been entrusted by
Dick Wilhurst as something which
he considered "too good to keep"
Imagine the delicacy of the self
imposed act; for the secret was no
other than the fact that the belle of
the season was the creature of a
joke, the envied idol of the summer
literally nothing more than ga block
Of wood or stone," at whose efficacy
the priests Of its worship mocked.


Miss Hammond performed her
self-imposed duty without trepida-
ton. If in the rivalry of the sea-
son she had allowed herself to feel
bitterness, and if malice lay in her
motive, she was not rewarded by
the effect upon her victim of her
astounding revelation. Inlistening
to the humilating tale, given in
strict confidence and without sup
preston of any stinging detail,
Irene remained calm, offering no
interruption or exclamation. Her
heart, indeed beat violently, her
color went and came. When the
whole story was ended, she ponder
ed a minute, and said


"Do you believe this, Miss Ham,
mond l hardly can. / think these
gentlemen-these friends of yours
are too wellbred to have placed
girl, an unoffending stranger, in
such an ignominious position. MOI
Do not trouble yourself about this
story. l feel sure these young men
have better hearts"


But, oh, the storm thatsw over
that barred bit of palpitating me-
chanism, the woman's heart in the
darkness of the night! The pain,
the .antalizing torment, the. bewil-
dering doubt. Could it be true |?
Let the careful memory, the calm
judgment, take up the facts. Alas,
the story was not without its cor
roborating proofs I!


The first night of anguish that
sweeps across the pillow of young
girl robs it forever of all the white
roses of which girls pillows are
made. Henceforth the softest is
but ruffled linen in which the head
rests.


In the morning Irene awoke-
for at dawn she caught one misera-
BILE half hours sleep--awoke for
the first morning of her life upon
a fat, stale, Improbable world.


What pleasuae was there to
made belle in fixing her blonde hair
at the glass


The first thought of the child
had been this: "Oh, how l wish /
could tell mother !" But she rea-
soned with herself, "No it is bet
ter I should bear it myself. And
father, dear father, how he would
resent this cruelty |! how much he
loves his poor little grill He must
never, never know.


The evening after Miss Ham
mand's dutiful act Irene was beau
tiful-reslly beautiful for the first
and, perhaps, for the last time in
her life. She came down into the
drawing-room arrayed in an excel
lent Paris dress, for her mother,
whose maternal instinct had been
aroused to the perception that Ir-
ene's costumes were not in the
style of those worn. by her COM
panions, had purchased for her
darling at an immoderate cost from
one of those fashionable modistes
who follow in the wake of the sum-
mer-faring gay world the very last
importation of draperied grace.


Irene came down into the draw
ing-room attired like little prin-
cess; but it was not that which
made every eye discover she was a
beauty at last. It was the hectic
rose-leaf on her cheek, the scarlet
of her lips, the violet shadow about
her eyes, tie mystical shadow up
on young eyelids that grief has at
last kissed; il was the kindled ex-
citement Of conflicting pain and
pride. the quick pride that made