physical gifts added to the colour and agreeableness of life, but because hers gave comfort and happiness to her mother.  To Mrs. Vanderpoel, to introduce to the world the loveliest debutante of many years was to be launched into a new future.  To concern one’s self about her exquisite wardrobe was to have an enlivening occupation.  To see her surrounded, to watch eyes as they followed her, to hear her praised, was to feel something of the happiness she had known in those younger days when New York had been less advanced in its news and methods, and slim little blonde Rosalie had come out in white tulle and waltzed like a fairy with a hundred partners.

“I wonder what Rosy looks like now,” the poor woman said involuntarily one day.  Bettina was not a fairy.  When her mother uttered her exclamation Bettina was on the point of going out, and as she stood near her, wrapped in splendid furs, she had the air of a Russian princess.

“She could not have worn the things you do, Betty,” said the affectionate maternal creature.  “She was such a little, slight thing.  But she was very pretty.  I wonder if twelve years have changed her much?”

Betty turned towards her rather suddenly.

“Mother,” she said, “sometime, before very long, I am going to see.”

“To see!” exclaimed Mrs. Vanderpoel.  “To see Rosy!”

“Yes,” Betty answered.  “I have a plan.  I have never told you of it, but I have been thinking over it ever since I was fifteen years old.”

She went to her mother and kissed her.  She wore a becoming but resolute expression.

“We will not talk about it now,” she said.  “There are some things I must find out.”

When she had left the room, which she did almost immediately, Mrs. Vanderpoel sat down and cried.  She nearly always shed a few tears when anyone touched upon the subject of Rosy.  On her desk were some photographs.  One was of Rosy as a little girl with long hair, one was of Lady Anstruthers in her wedding dress, and one was of Sir Nigel.

“I never felt as if I quite liked him,” she said, looking at this last, “but I suppose she does, or she would not be so happy that she could forget her mother and sister.”

There was another picture she looked at.  Rosalie had sent it with the letter she wrote to her father after he had forwarded the money she asked for.  It was a little study in water colours of the head of her boy.  It was nothing but a head, the shoulders being fancifully draped, but the face was a peculiar one.  It was over-mature, and unlovely, but for a mouth at once pathetic and sweet.

“He is not a pretty child,” sighed Mrs. Vanderpoel.  “I should have thought Rosy would have had pretty babies.  Ughtred is more like his father than his mother.”

She spoke to her husband later, of what Betty had said.

“What do you think she has in her mind, Reuben?” she asked.

“What Betty has in her mind is usually good sense,” was his response.  “She will begin to talk to me about it presently.  I shall not ask questions yet.  She is probably thinking:  things over.”