lden red than her brother's, was really wonderful; her neck was
slender; and she had a strange, dreamy face that fascinated Cynthia, who
had never seen anything like it.

She put down her book on the sofa and got up, not without a little
tremor at this unexpected encounter.

"Yes, I'm Cynthia Wetherell," she replied.

To add to her embarrassment, Miss Duncan seized both her hands
impulsively and gazed into her face.

"You're really very beautiful," she said. "Do you know it?"

Cynthia's only answer to this was a blush. She wondered if all city
girls were like Miss Duncan.

"I was determined to come up and speak to you the first chance I had,"
Janet continued. "I've been making up stories about you."

"Stories!" exclaimed Cynthia, drawing away her hands.

"Romances," said Miss Duncan--"real romances. Sometimes I think I'm
going to be a novelist, because I'm always weaving stories about people
that I see people who interest me, I mean. And you look as if you might
be the heroine of a wonderful romance."

Cynthia's breath was now quite taken away.

"Oh," she said, "I--had never thought that I looked like that."

"But you do," said Miss Duncan; "you've got all sorts of possibilities
in your face--you look as if you might have lived for ages."

"As old as that?" exclaimed Cynthia, really startled.

"Perhaps I don't express myself very well" said the other, hastily; "I
wish you could see what I've written about you already. I can do it so
much better with pen and ink. I've started quite a romance already."

"What is it?" asked Cynthia, not without interest.

"Sit down on the sofa and I'll tell you," said Miss Duncan; "I've done
it all from your face, too. I've made you a very poor girl brought up by
peasants, only you are really of a great family, although nobody knows
it. A rich duke sees you one day when he is hunting and falls in love
with you, and you have to stand a lot of suffering and persecution
because of it, and say nothing. I believe you could do that," added
Janet, looking critically at Cynthia's face.

"I suppose I could if I had to," said Cynthia, "but I shouldn't like
it."

"Oh, it would do you good," said Janet; "it would ennoble your
character. Not that it needs it," she added hastily. "And I could write
another story about that quaint old man who paid the musicians to go
away, and who made us all laugh so much."

Cynthia's eye kindled.

"Mr. Bass isn't a quaint old man," she said; "he'