that Mr. Leavenworth had a “glorious heart.”  Rowland wished to manifest an extreme regard, but toward the end of the talk his zeal relaxed, and he fell a-thinking that a certain natural ease in a woman was the most delightful thing in the world.  There was Christina Light, who had too much, and here was Miss Blanchard, who had too little, and there was Mary Garland (in whom the quality was wholly uncultivated), who had just the right amount.

He went to Madame Grandoni in an adjoining room, where she was pouring out tea.

“I will make you an excellent cup,” she said, “because I have forgiven you.”

He looked at her, answering nothing; but he swallowed his tea with great gusto, and a slight deepening of his color; by all of which one would have known that he was gratified.  In a moment he intimated that, in so far as he had sinned, he had forgiven himself.

“She is a lovely girl,” said Madame Grandoni.  “There is a great deal there.  I have taken a great fancy to her, and she must let me make a friend of her.”

“She is very plain,” said Rowland, slowly, “very simple, very ignorant.”

“Which, being interpreted, means, ’She is very handsome, very subtle, and has read hundreds of volumes on winter evenings in the country.’”

“You are a veritable sorceress,” cried Rowland; “you frighten me away!” As he was turning to leave her, there rose above the hum of voices in the drawing-room the sharp, grotesque note of a barking dog.  Their eyes met in a glance of intelligence.

“There is the sorceress!” said Madame Grandoni.  “The sorceress and her necromantic poodle!” And she hastened back to the post of hospitality.

Rowland followed her, and found Christina Light standing in the middle of the drawing-room, and looking about in perplexity.  Her poodle, sitting on his haunches and gazing at the company, had apparently been expressing a sympathetic displeasure at the absence of a welcome.  But in a moment Madame Grandoni had come to the young girl’s relief, and Christina had tenderly kissed her.

“I had no idea,” said Christina, surveying the assembly, “that you had such a lot of grand people, or I would not have come in.  The servant said nothing; he took me for an invitee.  I came to spend a neighborly half-hour; you know I have n’t many left!  It was too dismally dreary at home.  I hoped I should find you alone, and I brought Stenterello to play with the cat.  I don’t know that if I had known about all this I would have dared to come in; but since I ’ve stumbled into the midst of it, I beg you ’ll let me stay.  I am not dressed, but am I very hideous?  I will sit in a corner and no one will notice me.  My dear, sweet lady, do let me stay.  Pray, why did n’t you ask me?  I never have been to a little party like this.  They must be very charming.  No dancing—­tea and conversation?  No tea, thank you; but if you could spare a biscuit for Stenterello;