hly, and she would send one of the boys for
her presently. And after a little girlish gossip
and mutual admiration of each others' appearance,
the small maiden tripped away to her duties below.

Soon there was a knock at the door, and
Pocahontas, catching up fan, bouquet and handkerchief,
opened it and stepped into the hall. Nesbit
Thorne, slender and distinguished looking, was
awaiting her, Blanche having encountered and
dispatched him immediately on her return to the
parlors. As the girl stood an instant framed by
the open door, thrown into relief by the soft
glowing background of the warmly lighted room,
Thorne's heart swelled with mingled gladness and
impatience. Joy in the pure perfection of her
beauty; impatience at the restraint circumstances
forced him still to put upon his love.

At the foot of the stairs they were pounced
upon by Percival, who had selected that coigne of
vantage as least likely to attract his mother's
attention, there to lay in wait for the cards of the
unwary. He had been strictly forbidden to
importune grown young ladies for dances unless
they happened to be wall-flowers, and the injunction
lay heavy on his soul. "I _will_ ask girls other
men ask," he muttered, darkly, "I hate putting
up with refuse and leavings. I'm going to ask
the ones I want to ask," and he intrenched
himself beside the stairway with intent to black-mail
such girls as he should fancy.

Pocahontas, who had a natural affinity for boys,
and a great fondness for Percival, yielded to his
demand readily enough, surrendering her card to
him in gay defiance of Thorne's outspoken
reprobation, and laughing mischievously as the boy
scrawled his name triumphantly opposite a waltz.

"B.M.! Who's B.M., Miss Princess?" he
questioned, as he dextrously avoided Thorne's
extended hand, and placed the card in Pocahontas's.

"You've got him down just above me, and you
wrote it yourself. Who is he? Benevolent
Missionary? Brother Mason?"

"Exactly!" she answered, smiling, and watching
Thorne scribble his name in several places on
her card. "It is Berkeley. The Byrd girls and I
always saved a waltz for him to prevent his feeling
left out. He don't like to ask girls generally;
his one arm makes it look awkward, and he knows
they wouldn't like to refuse, because they all feel
sorry for him. _We_ put a hand on each shoulder,
and don't care how it looks. Berke is adroit, and
manages quite nicely. Often, too, it'