elcomed it.

"I think I'll go home now, Split," she remarked carelessly, rising.

A sudden blight fell upon the belle of the afternoon. When Sissy went,
go she must, too; this was the sole rule of conduct Francis Madigan had
devised for the guidance of his most headstrong daughter.

"Oh, Sissy--not till after supper!" she pleaded piteously.

"I--I've got some studying to do for the examination Monday," explained
the exemplary member of Mr. Garvan's class and society at large.

"Just wait till this one dance is over!" Coaxing was not Split Madigan's
forte; she was accustomed to demand.

But it was just that one dance that Sissy, the pure and patriotic, could
not countenance.

A quick flash of fury lighted Irene's eye. To be bossed publicly and
before Mr. Will Morrow of San Francisco! In her heart she swore to be
avenged; yet she dropped Mr. Morrow's hand and shook her head to all his
pleadings, as she followed her ruthless tyrant across the floor to the
little dressing-room.

But as the sisters emerged from the dressing-room door, Crosby Pemberton
and his cousin Fred stopped them.

"You're not going home, Split?" begged Fred. "I've been looking
everywhere for you. Oh, come and dance just this one with me!"

"Sissy's going," said Split, the lilting of the music stirring her
pulses and lifting her feet, despite the unmusical rage she was in, "and
I've got to go, too."

"Won't you stay--won't you wait just for this one, Sissy?" begged Fred.

"Why--certainly," acquiesced the gentle Sissy.

Split gasped with amazement. But she wasted no time, throwing off her
jacket with a quick twist of her wrist. Later she might fathom the
tortuosities of her tyrant's mind. All she knew now was that she might
dance. With whom was a small matter to Split Madigan.

Sissy watched her dance away, delight and malice in her eye. She was
watching till Mr. Morrow from the city should behold her revenge. But
Crosby did not know this, and he had plans of his own.

"Come and play a game over in the corner, just till this dance's over,
won't you, Sissy?"

"What kind of a game?" she demanded, following him mechanically.

"Oh, a new game. It's lots of fun. I'll show you."

Sissy consented. She could play a game--and she knew she was clever at
all games--without fear of betrayal from that red sham which she had
been fiercely sitting upon half the afternoon.

Before long, her emulative spirit got her so interested in this
particular