color of her hair, like that she had
seen the pretty actress, Alice Craike, so bewitching in. She could
deepen it with chestnut trimmings, all toning up together to one
rich, bright harmony. Her hair was "_blond cendre_,"--not the
red-golden of Alice Craike's; but the same subtle rule of art was
available; "_cafe-au-lait_" was her shade; and the darker velvet
just deepened and emphasized the effect.

She was putting this dress on to-night, with some brown and golden
leaves in the high, massed braids of her hair. She certainly knew
how to make a picture of herself; she was just made to make a
picture of.

The hotel waitress who had brought up her tea on a tray, had gone
down with a report that Miss Kent was "stunning;" and two or three
housemaids and a number of little boys were vibrating and loitering
about the hall and doorway below, watching for her to come down to
her carriage. It was just as good, so far as these things went, as
if she had been Mrs. Kemble, or Christine Nilsson, or anybody.

And Marion, poor child, had really got no farther than "these
things," yet. She reached, for herself, to just what she had been
able to appreciate in others. She had taken in the housemaid and
small-boy view of famousness, and she was having her shallow little
day of living it. She had not found out, yet, how short a time that
would last. "Verily," it was said for us all long ago, "ye shall
have each your reward," such as ye look and labor for.

One great boy was waiting for her, _ex officio_, and without
disguise,--the President of the Lyceum Club, before which she was to
read to-night.

He sat serenely in the reception-room, ready to hand her to her
carriage, and accompany her to the hall.

The little boys observed him with exasperation. The housemaids
dropped their lower jaws with wonder, when she swept down the
staircase; her _cafe-au-lait_ silk rolling and glittering behind
her, as if the breakfast for all Loweburg were pouring down the
Phoenix Hotel stairs.

The President of the People's Lyceum Club heard the rustle of
elegance, and met her at the stair-foot with bowing head and bended
arm.

That was a beautiful, triumphant moment, in which she crossed the
space between the staircase and the door, and went down over the
sidewalk to the hack. What would you have? There could not have been
more of it, in her mind, though all Loweburg were standing by. She
was Miss Kent, going out to give her Reading. What more c