a decided contrast, these two, standing face to face.

One, with the calm that comes only when storm clouds have swept
athwart life's sky, leaving behind marks of their desolating progress,
but leaving, too, calm after tempest; after restlessness, repose.

The other, stretching out her hand like a pleased child to woo the
purple lightning from the distance, buoyant with bright hopes, with
nothing on brow or lip to indicate how that proud head would bear
itself after it had been bowed before the passing storm.

"Pardon me," said the lady, in a sweet contralto. "I think I am not
mistaken; this is the young lady who arrived last evening, and is
registered,"--she looked full in the girl's eyes--"as Miss Weir?"

Madeline's eyes drooped before that searching gaze, but she answered,
simply: "Yes."

[Illustration: "I have not yet introduced myself. Here is my
card."--page 68.]

"You are naturally much astonished to see me here, and my errand is a
delicate one. Since I have seen you, however, I have lost every doubt
I may have entertained as to the propriety of my visit. Will you trust
me so far as to answer a few simple questions?"

The words of the stranger had put to flight the first idea formed in
her mind, namely, that this visit was a mistake. It was intended for
her, and now, who had instigated it? She looked up into the face of
her visitor and said, with her characteristic frankness of speech:

"Who sent you to me?"

The abruptness of the question caused the stranger to smile.

"One who is the soul of honor and the friend of all womankind," she
said, with a soft light in her eyes.

Madeline's eyes still searched her face. "And his name is that," she
said, putting the card of Clarence Vaughan upon the table between
them.

"Yes; and this reminds me, I have not yet introduced myself. Here is
my card."

She placed in the hand of Madeline a delicate bit of cardboard bearing
the name, "Olive Girard."

Silence fell between them for a moment, and then Olive Girard spoke.

"Won't you ask me to be seated, and hear what I wish to say, Miss
Weir?"

She hesitated over the name, and Madeline, perceiving it, said:

"You think Weir is not my name?"

"Frankly, I do," smiled Mrs. Girard; "but just now the name matters
little. Pardon me, but I am more interested in your face than your
name. I came here because it seemed my duty, and to oblige a friend;
now I wish to serve you for your own sake, to be your friend, if