anyway, all for nothing!  I’ve heard of such enmity, but I never believed in it, for I never met it before.  And all this time there was Tilly Morris,—­oh, Tilly,” whirling rapidly about, “what a dear, brave, generous, faithful little thing you’ve been,” the ringing voice faltering, “for in spite of—­even this—­this dreadful Smithson, you stuck to me and tried to shield me.”

“Oh, I knew, and so did grandmother, that you were innocent, whatever might just possibly have happened to—­to—­”

“Mr. Smithson—­” And Peggy began to laugh.  But the laugh ended in something like a sob, and she hurriedly hid her face on Tilly’s shoulder.  When an instant after she looked up, it was to see that Agnes had disappeared.

“Yes, the enemy has fled,” said Tom Raymond.  “The minute you dropped your eyes she was off.  We might have stopped her, Will and I, but there wasn’t much left of her.  Oh, oh, oh! isn’t she finished off beautifully, though?” and Tom gave way at last to the hilarity he had so long manfully repressed.

“Finished off!  I should say so!” cried Will, joining in Tom’s laughter.

“And to think that you were a Pelham,—­one of Agnes’s wonderful Pelhams all the time,” put in Tilly, still with an air of bewilderment.

“And am now,” laughed Peggy.  “Oh, Tilly, you are such a dear!”

“One of Agnes’s wonderful Pelhams!” shouted Tom.  “Guess she won’t be in a hurry to set up a claim to ’em now!” and Tom burst out again in wild chuckles of hilarity.

“And I never saw her, and I don’t believe she ever met one of us before,” cried Peggy.

“She told Amy that she didn’t know the Pelhams yet, but that her Aunt Ann did, and her aunt was coming next month and would introduce her to them when they arrived,” said Tilly, with a demure smile.

“Well, she’ll probably like my sister Isabel’s Skye terrier, with its fine name of Prince, much better than she does my poor little plebeian doggie, with its vulgar name of Pete,” remarked Peggy, her eyes twinkling with fun.

“Oh, Peggy, to think of your hearing all that talk about the dog and everything.”

“And everything?  I should say so!” cried Will, starting up and looking rather red as he recalled his own words.

“Yes, and everything,—­all about the dogs and the difference between the Wentworths and the Pelhams,” took up Peggy, dimpling with smiles.

“Oh, I say now,” began Will.

“Yes, you may say now just what you did then.  I liked it,—­I liked it.  It was sensible and plucky of you, and it was such fun.  Oh, when I think that but for auntie and me coming on ahead of the rest, and without a maid, and the hotel clerk writing only ‘Mrs. Smith and niece’ in the register, I should never have had all these wonderful experiences, and never have known what a friend my Tilly could be,—­when I think of all this, I want to dance a jig, just such a jig as they are playing this minute;” and up she jumped, this smiling Peggy, and, catching Tilly in her arms, went waltzing down the path with her toward the hall from whence floated the gay strains of the “Lancers.”