“No matter, Fanny, to-night.  See that the youngsters have a good time,” and he passed hastily out.

“He’s worrying about those stupid business matters again,” she said, and the thought seemed to give much relief.

Business matters were masculine, and she was essentially feminine.  Her world was as far removed from finance as her laces from the iron in which her husband dealt.

A little boy of four years of age and a little girl of six, whose tiny form was draped in such gossamer-like fabrics that she seemed more fairy-like than human, were pulling at her dress, eager to enter the mirth-resounding parlors, but afraid to leave her sheltering wing.  Mrs. Jocelyn watched the scene from the doorway, where her husband had stood, without his sigh.  Her motherly heart sympathized with Belle’s abounding life and fun, and her maternal pride was assured by the budding promise of a beauty which would shine pre-eminent when the school-girl should become a belle in very truth.

But her eyes rested on Mildred with wistful tenderness.  Her own experience enabled her to interpret her daughter’s manner, and to understand the ebb and flow of feeling whose cause, as yet, was scarcely recognized by the young girl.

The geniality of Mrs. Jocelyn’s smile might well assure Vinton Arnold that she welcomed his presence at her daughter’s side, and yet, for some reason, the frank, cordial greeting in the lady’s eyes and manner made him sigh again.  He evidently harbored a memory or a thought that did not accord with the scene or the occasion.  Whatever it was it did not prevent him from enjoying to the utmost the pleasure he ever found in the presence of Mildred.  In contrast with Belle she had her mother’s fairness and delicacy of feature, and her blue eyes were not designed to express the exultation and pride of one of society’s flattered favorites.  Indeed it was already evident that a glance from Arnold was worth more than the world’s homage.  And yet it was comically pathetic—­as it ever is—­to see how the girl tried to hide the “abundance of her heart.”

“Millie is myself right over again,” thought Mrs. Jocelyn; “hardly in society before in a fair way to be out of it.  Beaux in general have few attractions for her.  Belle, however, will lead the young men a chase.  If I’m any judge, Mr. Arnold’s symptoms are becoming serious.  He’s just the one of all the world for Millie, and could give her the home which her style of beauty requires—­a home in which not a common or coarse thing would be visible, but all as dainty as herself.  How I would like to furnish her house!  But Martin always thinks he’s so poor.”

Mrs. Jocelyn soon left the parlor to complete her arrangements for an elegant little supper, and she complacently felt that, whatever might be the tribulations of the great iron firm down town, her small domain was serene with present happiness and bright with promise.

While the vigorous appetites of the growing boys and girls were disposing of the supper, Arnold and Mildred rather neglected their plates, finding ambrosia in each other’s eyes, words, and even intonations.  Now that they had the deserted parlor to themselves, Mildred seemed under less constraint.