Some one, standing behind where Leslie Goldthwaite came to her place at the end of the line by the hall-door, had followed and interpreted the whole; had read the rare, shy pleasure in Martha Josselyn’s face and movement, the bright, expressive warmth in Sin Saxon’s and the half-surprise of observation upon others; and he thought as I do.

“‘Friends of the mammon of unrighteousness.’  That girl has even sanctified the German!”

There was only one voice like that, only one person who would so speak himself out.  Leslie Goldthwaite turned quickly, and found herself face to face with Marmaduke Wharne.  “I am so glad you have come!” said she.

He regarded her shrewdly.  “Then you can do without me,” he said.  “I didn’t know by this time how it might be.”

The last two had taken their places below Leslie while these words were exchanged, and now the whole line moved forward to meet their partners, and the waltz began.  Frank Scherman had got back to-day, and was dancing with Sin Saxon.  Leslie and Dakie Thayne were together, as they had been that first evening at Jefferson, and as they often were.  The four stopped, after their merry whirl, in this same corner by the door where Mr. Wharne was standing.  Dakie Thayne shook hands with his friend in his glad boy’s way.  Across their greetings came Sin Saxon’s words, spoken to her companion,—­“You’re to take her, Frank.”  Frank Scherman was an old childhood’s friend, not a mere mountain acquaintance.  “I’ll bring up plenty of others first, but you’re to wait and take her.  And, wherever she got her training, you’ll find she’s the featest-footed among us.”  It was among the children—­training them—­that she had caught the trick of it, but Sin Saxon did not know.

“I’m ready to agree with you, with but just the reservation that you could not make,” Frank Scherman answered.

“Nonsense,” said Sin Saxon.  “But stop! here’s something better and quicker.  They’re getting the bouquets.  Give her yours.  It’s your turn.  Go!”

Sin Saxon’s blue eyes sparkled like two stars; the golden mist of her hair was tossed into lighter clouds by exercise; on her cheeks a bright rose-glow burned; and the lips parted with their sweetest, because most unconscious, curve over the tiny gleaming teeth.  Her word and her glance sent Frank Scherman straight to do her bidding; and a bunch of wild azaleas and scarlet lilies was laid in Martha Josselyn’s hand, and she was taken out again into the dance by the best partner there.  We may trust her to Sin Saxon and Frank Scherman, and her own “feat-footedness;” everything will not go by her any more, and she but twenty.

Marmaduke Wharne watched it all with that keen glance of his that was like a level line of fire from under the rough, gray brows.

“I am glad you saw that,” said Leslie Goldthwaite, watching also, and watching him.

“By the light of your own little text,—­’kind, and bright, and pleasant’?  You think it will do me good?”