face was radiant enough to satisfy the most exacting, but her small
dimpled fingers were bare.

"Why do you all stare at my hands so?" she exclaimed once.

"It's on account of the ring," whispered little Sibyl. "Hasn't he given
you the ring yet?"

"Who is 'he,' dear?"

"Oh, I wasn't to say. His name is Mr. Lover."

CHAPTER XVI.

SWEETLY ROMANTIC.

Mrs. Carnegie could scarcely be considered the most cheerful companion
in the world. There was a general sense of rejoicing when Frances took
up her abode at Arden, but the victim who was to spend the greater part
of her life in Mrs. Carnegie's heated chambers could scarcely be
expected to participate in it. This good lady having turned her thoughts
inward for so long, could only see the world from this extremely narrow
standpoint. She was hypochondriacal, she was fretful, and although
Frances managed her, and, in consequence, the rest of the household
experienced a good deal of ease, Frances herself, whose heart just now
was not of the lightest, could not help suffering. Her cheeks grew
paler, her figure slighter and thinner. She could only cry at night, but
then she certainly cried a good deal.

On a certain sunny afternoon, Mrs. Carnegie, who thought it her bounden
duty on all occasions to look out for grievances, suddenly took it upon
herself to complain of Frances's looks.

"It is not that you are dull, my dear," she remarked. "You are fairly
cheerful, and your laugh is absolutely soothing; but you are pale,
dreadfully pale, and pallor jars on my nerves, dear. Yes, I assure you,
in the sensitive state of my poor nerves a pale face like yours is
absolutely excruciating to them, darling."

"I am very sorry," replied Frances. She had been a month with Mrs.
Carnegie now, and the changed life had certainly not improved her. "I am
very sorry." Then she thought a moment. "Would you like to know why I am
pale?"

"How interesting you are, my love--so different from every other
individual that comes to see me. It is good for my poor nerves to have
my attention distracted to any other trivial matter? Tell me, dearest,
why you are so pallid. I do trust the story is exciting--I need
excitement, my darling. Is it an affair of the heart, precious?"

Frances's face grew very red. Even Mrs. Carnegie ought to have been
satisfied for one brief moment with her bloom.

"I fear I can only give you a very prosaic reason," she said, in her
gentle, sad voice. "I have litt