There came at this moment a raid upon Mr. Elliott by three or four ladies, members of his congregation, who surrounded him and Dr. Hillhouse, and cut short their conversation.

Meanwhile, Ellis Whitford had already half forgotten his painful interview with his mother in the pleasure of meeting Blanche Birtwell, to whom he had recently become engaged.  She was a pure and lovely young woman, inheriting her mother’s personal beauty and refined tastes.  She had been carefully educated and kept by her mother as much within the sphere of home as possible and out of society of the hoydenish girls who, moving in the so-called best circles, have the free and easy manners of the denizens of a public garden rather than the modest demeanor of unsullied maidenhood.  She was a sweet exception to the loud, womanish, conventional girl we meet everywhere—­on the street, in places, of public amusement and in the drawing-room—­a fragrant human flower with the bloom of gentle girlhood on every unfolding leaf.

It was no slender tie that bound these lovers together.  They had moved toward each other, drawn by an inner attraction that was irresistible to each; and when heart touched heart, their pulses took a common beat.  The life of each had become bound up in the other, and their betrothal was no mere outward contract.  The manly intellect and the pure heart had recognized each other, tender love had lifted itself to noble thought, and thought had grown stronger and purer as it felt the warmth and life of a new and almost divine inspiration.  Ellis Whitford had risen to a higher level by virtue of this betrothal.

They were sitting in a bay-window, out of the crowd of guests, when a movement in the company was observed by Whitford.  Knowing what it meant, he arose and offered his arm to Blanche.  As he did so he became aware of a change in his companion, felt rather than seen; and yet, if he had looked closely into her face, a change in its expression would have been visible.  The smile was still upon her beautiful lips, and the light and tenderness still in her eyes, but from both something had departed.  It was as if an almost invisible film of vapor had drifted across the sun of their lives.

In silence they moved on to the supper-room—­moved with the light and heavy-hearted, for, as Dr. Hillhouse had intimated, there were some there to whom that supper-room was regarded with anxiety and fear—­wives and mothers and sisters who knew, alas! too well that deadly serpents lie hidden among the flowers of every banqueting-room.

How bright and joyous a scene it was!  You did not see the trouble that lay hidden in so many hearts; the light and glitter, the flash and brilliancy, were too strong.