the face, no longer grave, but brightening like an April sky. The
outlook of the eyes was so frank and clear; the half-smile playing about
the parted lips had the honesty of a child. He touched his hat, and
bowed with an almost stately deference.

Sylvie nodded and smiled, leaning forward a bit. What sent the glad
light so quickly out of his countenance? The girl glanced at Irene.

Miss Lawrence had stared coolly, haughtily, decisively. This man might
look at her hundreds of times in the days to come, but he would never
again expect a social recognition from her. And, oh, perfection of
cruelty! Sylvie, his fellow-sinner in these social laws, had witnessed
his pain and discomfiture.

She turned with her face at white heat, one of those inward flashes of
indignation that transcend any scarlet blaze of anger. Her eyes glowed
with a fiery ray, and the curves of mouth and chin seemed as if frozen.

"It was a deliberate insult, Irene! How dared you"--

"How dared I pass one of my father's workmen? Well, Miss Barry, I happen
not to be hand-in-glove with them. I can relegate them to their proper
place when an ill-judged vanity brings them unduly forward."

"You met him at _my_ house: he is _my_ friend, and the friend of my
aunt. His birth is as good as yours, or mine."

"Oh, I dare say!" with a satirical laugh. "Are you really going to marry
him, Sylvie? Have you the courage to throw yourself quite away?"

"Stop!" and she caught at the reins. The next moment she was on the
sidewalk. "Good-evening," she exclaimed with the dignity of a queen.

"The little spitfire!" laughed Miss Lawrence.

Sylvie's displeasure mattered very little to her. A few days later she
was on her way to Long Branch, and the episode was soon danced out of
mind.

As for Sylvie Barry, she made up her mind never to go to Hope Terrace
again. The friendship was not of her seeking, and now it should end.
Friendship, indeed! It disgraced the word to use it in connection with
Irene Lawrence.

That very evening she went around to the Darcys. Neither she nor Jack
mentioned the rencontre, but there was an indescribable something in her
manner that told Jack the insult had been as much to her as to him.

Hardly a fortnight later the Lawrence carriage stood at the gate of the
pretty court-yard, and the liveried driver brought a note to the door.

DEAR SYLVIE,--[in a tremulous, uncertain hand] I
am wretched and lonely. Fred and Irene a