ged to hold
single converse. If this opinion needed further confirmation it was
added, when she appeared at the Scholars' Levee, held on the evening of
the exhibition, in elegant dress and dashing spirits, with Rufus Malcome
for a partner.

They passed each other in the dance without a token of recognition.
Edgar attached himself to Edith for the larger part of the evening.
After the first two or three cotillons he did not care to join them; and
Edith, being too delicate to bear the excitement, they roamed through
the hall, conversing together of the events of the exhibition, or
mingling among groups of the village people who had assembled by
invitation to partake in the festive scene.

"Ha, my little fairy!" whispered Mrs. Edson in the ear of Edith, as she
was sauntering past on the arm of Lindenwood, unmindful of her friend's
proximity; "are you so far skyward you can't see poor Louise? Introduce
me to your princely gallant, an' it please you."

Edith turned and presented Edgar to Mrs. Edson, who instantly found them
a place in the group around her.

"This scene brings vividly before me my happy school days," she
remarked, tears welling up to her beautiful eyes, which she dashed
hurriedly away, exclaiming, "but I must not begin to prose about myself
when I was young, lest I drive you all away by my tedious recitals."

"Mr. Lindenwood," said she, turning to Edgar, "though we have never met
before, your vivid personations on the stage to-day have caused you to
seem more like an old friend than a comparative stranger."

Edgar expressed his pleasure that his poor performances had met her
approbation, and also that she condescended to recognize him as a
friend.

"What a graceful creature is Florence Howard!" continued Mrs. Edson, as
the fair girl whirled past her in the dance. "Edith, your brother should
consider himself most fortunate in securing the most brilliant lady in
the room for a partner; no disparagement to your charms, my dear," she
added, leaning over and bestowing a kiss on the soft cheek of the
blushing girl. "You know what I think of you, darling. The spirit of
beauty is everywhere, says the poet. She assumes the largest variety of
types and forms, and, verily, she has given her most dangerous one to
Florence Howard. She is the brilliant dahlia, the pride of the gay
parterre; but my Edith is the modest daisy blooming in some sheltered
nook. The stormy winds shall rend the one from its lofty stalk and