hy Elizabeth should have dreaded
this dinner, for the guests in the drawing-room now had nearly all of
them been present at that wedding scene seven months before. She knew
when Katie Archdale came in. It was almost at the last. She was leaning
on her father's arm, her mother on his other. Both friends felt that
every eye in the room would watch their meeting. There was an
involuntary pause in the conversation; then it was taken up again here
and there, languidly, to cover the attention that must not be marked.
Katie had been into company very little since her attempted wedding; her
presence was almost a new sensation. As usual, she behaved admirably.
After greeting her aunt she slipped away from her father, and walked
slowly forward, on the way speaking to those she passed. Her tones were
mellowed a little by her suffering, but sweet and clear as ever, At last
she came to Elizabeth. They had not been face to face since that
December day in Mr. Archdale's library when Katie had turned away her
head from Elizabeth's pleading. She did nothing of the kind now, she
came forward with a chastened tenderness and said, "Elizabeth," and
kissed her. It was Elizabeth, who the night before had been sobbing over
Katie's hard lot and praying that happiness might come to her, and who
was looking at her now with a heart full of contrition and admiration,
who seemed to those watching to greet the girl coldly, to be indifferent
to her beauty and her disappointment. Strangely enough, however, Stephen
did not think so; he remembered the scene in the library, and it was
possible that in the few times that he had met Elizabeth he had learned
to understand her a little. He was quick of apprehension where his
prejudices were not concerned, and he certainly had had no opportunity
to be prejudiced against Elizabeth as one wanting to lay claim to him.
And he knew better than any one else did how she hated the very thought
of the yoke that might be laid upon her. His thoughts did not dwell upon
her, however, for he saw that Katie was like her old affectionate self,
that her unjust resentment had been only momentary; it would have been
unnatural not to have felt so on that day, he reasoned. Now she was
lovelier than ever, softened; by her suffering, the suffering he was
sharing. He sighed, turned away, looking out of the window doggedly,
turned back, and walked quickly up to her.

"How do you do?" he said, holding out his hand.

"How do you do, St