Marian dried her eyes.  “Scars?”

“When you are pointed out—­as you will be, wherever you go—­” said Julie, “you’ll think to yourself, ’Ah, yes, this is very lovely and very flattering, but I’ll never dance again—­I’ll never rush into the waves again, I’ll never spend a whole morning on the tennis court,’ won’t you?”

The Dancing Girl nodded, her eyes filling again, her lips trembling.

“And when people stare after me and follow me,” said Julie, “I think to myself—­’Oh, this is very flattering, very delightful—­but the young years are gone—­the mother who missed me and longed for me is gone—­the little sisters are married, and deep in happy family cares—­they don’t need me any more.’  I have what I wanted, but I’ve paid the price!  In a life like mine there’s no room for the normal, wonderful ties of a home and children.  Never—­” she put her head back against her chair and shut her eyes—­“never that happiness for me!” She finished, her voice lowered and carefully controlled.

They were both silent awhile.  Then Marian stirred her helpless fingers just enough to deepen their light pressure on Julie’s own.

“Thank you,” she said shyly.  “I see now.  I think I begin to understand.”

ROSEMARY’S STEPMOTHER

In the sunny morning-room there prevailed an atmosphere of business.  Rosemary, at the desk, was rapidly writing notes and addressing envelopes.  Theodore, a deep wrinkle crossing his forehead, was struggling to reduce to order a confused heap of crumpled and illegible papers.  Before him lay little heaps of silver and small gold, which he moved and counted untiringly, referring now and then to various entries in a large, flat ledger.  Mrs. Bancroft, stepmother of these two, was in a deep chair, with her lap full of letters.  Now and then she quoted aloud from these as she opened and glanced over them.  Lastly, Ann Weatherbee, a neighbor, seated on the floor with her back against Mrs. Bancroft’s knee, was sorting a large hamperful of silver spoons and crumpled napkins into various heaps.

“There!” said Ann, presently.  “I’ve finished the napkins—­or nearly!  Tell me, whose are these, Aunt Nell?”

Mrs. Bancroft reached a smooth hand for them and mused over the monograms.

“B—­B—­B—?” she reflected.  “Both are B’s, aren’t they?  And different, too.  This is Mrs. Bayne’s, anyway—­I was with her when she bought these.  But these—?  Oh, I know now, Ann!  That little cousin of the Potters’,—­what was her name, Rosemary?”

“Sutter, madam!  Guess again.”

“No; but her unmarried name, I mean?”

“Oh, Beatty, of course!” supplied Ann.  “Aren’t you clever to remember that!  I’ll tie them up.  Oh, and should there only be eleven of the Whiteley Greek-borders?” she asked presently.

“One was sent home with a cake, dear,—­we had too much cake.”

“We always do, somehow,” commented Rosemary, absently, and there was a silence.  The last speaker broke it presently, with a long sigh.