“Who is she?” was asked by many, who at once acknowledged her claims to their attention, and as soon as practicable sought her acquaintance, so that Helen suddenly found herself the center of a little court of which she was the queen and Mark her sworn knight.

Presuming upon his mother’s chaperonage, he claimed the right of attending her, and Juno’s glory waned quite as effectually as it had done when Katy was the leading star to which New York paid homage.

Juno had been annoyed then, but now fierce jealousy took possession of her heart as she watched the girl whom all seemed to admire, even Wilford feeling a thrill of pride that the possession of so attractive a sister-in-law reflected credit upon himself.

He was not ashamed of her now, nor did he retain a single thought of the farmhouse or Uncle Ephraim as he made his way to her side, standing protectingly at her left, just as Mark was standing at her right, and at last asking her to dance.

With a heightened color Helen declined, saying frankly: 

“I have never learned.”

“You miss a great deal,” Wilford rejoined, appealing to Mark for a confirmation of his words.

But Mark did not heartily respond.  He, too, had solicited Helen as a partner when the dancing first commenced, and her quiet refusal had disappointed him a little, for Mark was fond of dancing, and though as a general thing he disapproved of waltzes and polkas when he was the looker-on, he felt that there would be something vastly agreeable and exhilarating in clasping Helen in his arm and whirling her about the room just as Juno was being whirled by a young cadet, a friend of Lieutenant Bob’s.  But when he reflected that not his arm alone would encircle her waist, or his breath touch her snowy neck, he was glad she did not dance, and professing a weariness he did not feel, he declined to join the dancers on the floor, but kept with Helen, enjoying what she enjoyed, and putting her so perfectly at her ease that no one would ever have dreamed of the curdy cheeses she had made, or the pounds of butter she had churned.  But Mark thought of it as he secretly admired the neck and arms seen once before on that memorable day when he assisted Helen in the labors of the dairy.  If nothing else had done so, the lily in her hair would have brought that morning to his mind, and once as they walked up and down the hall he spoke of the ornament she had chosen, and how well it became her.

“Pond lilies are my pets,” she said, “and I have kept one of those I gathered last fall when at Silverton.  Do you remember them?” and his eyes rested upon Helen with a look that made her blush as she faintly answered “yes”; but she did not tell him of a little box at home, a box made of cones and acorns, and where was hidden a withered water lily, which she could not throw away, even after its beauty and fragrance had departed.

Had she told him this it might have put to flight the doubts troubling Mark so much, and making him wonder if Dr. Grant had really a claim upon the girl stealing his heart so fast.