e leading star to which New York paid homage.

Juno had been annoyed then, but now fierce jealousy took possession
of her heart as she watched the girl whom all seemed to admire, even
Wilford feeling a thrill of pride that the possession of so attractive
a sister-in-law reflected credit upon himself.

He was not ashamed of her now, nor did he retain a single thought of the
farmhouse or Uncle Ephraim as he made his way to her side, standing
protectingly at her left, just as Mark was standing at her right, and
at last asking her to dance.

With a heightened color Helen declined, saying frankly:

"I have never learned."

"You miss a great deal," Wilford rejoined, appealing to Mark for a
confirmation of his words.

But Mark did not heartily respond. He, too, had solicited Helen as a
partner when the dancing first commenced, and her quiet refusal had
disappointed him a little, for Mark was fond of dancing, and though
as a general thing he disapproved of waltzes and polkas when he was the
looker-on, he felt that there would be something vastly agreeable and
exhilarating in clasping Helen in his arm and whirling her about the
room just as Juno was being whirled by a young cadet, a friend of
Lieutenant Bob's. But when he reflected that not his arm alone would
encircle her waist, or his breath touch her snowy neck, he was glad she
did not dance, and professing a weariness he did not feel, he declined
to join the dancers on the floor, but kept with Helen, enjoying what she
enjoyed, and putting her so perfectly at her ease that no one would ever
have dreamed of the curdy cheeses she had made, or the pounds of butter
she had churned. But Mark thought of it as he secretly admired the neck
and arms seen once before on that memorable day when he assisted Helen
in the labors of the dairy. If nothing else had done so, the lily in
her hair would have brought that morning to his mind, and once as they
walked up and down the hall he spoke of the ornament she had chosen, and
how well it became her.

"Pond lilies are my pets," she said, "and I have kept one of those I
gathered last fall when at Silverton. Do you remember them?" and his
eyes rested upon Helen with a look that made her blush as she faintly
answered "yes"; but she did not tell him of a little box at home, a box
made of cones and acorns, and where was hidden a withered water lily,
which she could not throw away, even after its beauty and fragrance had
departed.

Had sh