“You underrate yourself, my dear,” said her mother, a little proudly.

“Not at all.  Humility, genuine or feigned, is not one of our family traits.  Mother, will you send up tea for us?  We want a quiet time; at least, I do, and Beulah will stay with me.”

“But, my love, it is selfish to exclude the balance of the family.  Why not come down to the sitting room, where we can all be together?” pleaded the mother.

“Because I prefer staying just where I am.  Beulah, put down that window, will you?  Mary must think that I have been converted into a Polar bear; and, mother, have some coal brought up.  If there is any truth in the metempsychosis of the Orient, I certainly was a palm tree or a rhinoceros in the last stage of my existence.”  She shivered, and wrapped a heavy shawl up to her very chin.

“May I come in?” asked Eugene, at the door.

“No; go and sing duets with Netta, and amuse yourself downstairs,” said she shortly, while a frown darkened her face.

Nevertheless he came in, shook hands with Beulah, and, leaning over the back of Cornelia’s chair, asked tenderly: 

“How is my sister?  I heard on the street that you were injured.”

“Oh, I suppose the whole city will be bemoaning my tragic fate.  I am not at all hurt, Eugene.”

“You have had one of those attacks, though; I see from your face.  Has it passed off entirely?”

“No; and I want to be quiet.  Beulah is going to read me to sleep after a while.  You may go down now.”

“Beulah, you will be with us to-morrow, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry I am obliged to dine out; I shall be at home, however, most of the day.  I called the other evening, but you were not at home.”

“Yes; I was sorry I did not see you,” said Beulah, looking steadily at his flushed face and sparkling eyes.

“Dine out, Eugene!  For what, I should like to know?” cried Cornelia, raising herself in her chair and fixing her eyes impatiently upon him.  “Henderson and Milbank are both here, you know, and I could not refuse to join them in a Christmas dinner.”

“Then why did you not invite them to dine at your own house?” Her voice was angry; her glance searching.

“The party was made up before I knew anything about it.  They will all be here in the evening.”

“I doubt it!” said she sneeringly.  The flush deepened on his cheek and he bit his lip; then, turning suddenly to Beulah, he said, as he suffered his eyes to wander over her plain, fawn-colored merino dress: 

“You have not yet heard Netta sing, I believe!”

“No.”

“Where is she, Cornelia?”

“I have no idea.”

“I hope my sister will be well enough to take part in the tableaux to-morrow evening.”  Taking her beautifully molded hand, he looked at her anxiously.  Her piercing, black eyes were riveted on his countenance, as she answered: