“Nobody’s afraid of you,” she soliloquised, “if you do belong to the firstest family in Virginia.”  Then, hearing Rachel, who answered his ring, bid him walk into the parlor and amuse himself till Mrs. Atherton came, she thought, “Wouldn’t it be jolly to go down and entertain him myself.  Let me see, what does Mrs. Atherton say to the Shannondale gentlemen when they call?  Oh, I know, she asks them if they’ve read the last new novel; how they liked it, and so on.  I can do all that, and maybe he’ll think I’m a famous scholar.  I mean to wear the shawl she looks so pretty in,” and going to her mistress’ drawer, the child took out and threw around her shoulders a crimson scarf, which Grace often wore, and then descended to the parlor, where Arthur St. Claire stood, leaning against the marble mantel, and listlessly examining various ornaments upon it.

At the first sight of him Edith felt her courage forsaking her, there seemed so wide a gulf between herself and the haughty-looking stranger, and she was about to leave the room when he called after her, bidding her stay, and asking who she was.

“I’m Edith Hastings,” she answered, dropping into a chair, and awkwardly kicking her heels against the rounds in her embarrassment at having those large, quizzical brown eyes fixed so inquiringly upon her.

He was a tall, handsome young man, not yet nineteen years of age, and in his appearance there certainly was something savoring of the air supposed to mark the F. F. V’s.  His manners were polished in the extreme, possessing, perhaps, a little too much hauteur, and impressing the beholder with the idea that he could, if he chose, be very cold and overbearing.  His forehead, high and intellectually formed, was shaded by curls of soft brown hair, while about his mouth there lurked a mischievous smile, somewhat at variance with the proud curve of his upper lip, where an incipient mustache was starting into life.  Such was Arthur St. Claire, as he stood coolly inspecting Edith Hastings, who mentally styling him the “hatefullest upstart” she ever saw, gave him back a glance as cool and curious as his own.

“You are an odd little thing,” he said at last.

“No I ain’t neither,” returned Edith, the tears starting in her flashing black eyes.

“Spunky,” was the young man’s next remark, as he advanced a step or two toward her.  “But don’t let’s quarrel, little lady.  You’ve come down to entertain me, I dare say; and now tell me who you are.”

His manner at once disarmed the impulsive Edith of all prejudice, and she replied: 

“I told you I was Edith Hastings, Mrs. Atherton’s waiting maid.”

“Waiting maid!” and Arthur St. Claire took a step or two backwards as he said:  “Why are you in here?  This is not your place.”

Edith sprang to her feet.  She could not misunderstand the feeling with which he regarded her, and with an air of insulted dignity worthy of Grace herself, she exclaimed,