in trouble!"

"I was thinking of my mother," she said gently, holding out her hand to
him.

He took it and said presently, "Will you not talk to me about her,
Lisa? You have not told me any thing of your people, my darling. Nor
of yourself. Why, I don't even know whether you are French or German."

"Oh, you shall hear the whole story when we are married," she replied
softly, a wicked glitter in her eyes. "Some of the noblest blood in
Europe is in my veins. I will give you my genealogical tree to hang up
in that old homestead of yours. It will interest the people of
Weir--and please your mother."

"It is good in you to think of her," he said, tenderly looking down at
her.

He was not blind. He saw the muddy skin, the thick lips, the soiled,
ragged lace. They would have disgusted him in another woman.

But this was--Lisa. There was no more to be said.

These outside trifles would fall off when she came into his life. Even
with them she was the breath and soul of it.

She saw the difference between them more sharply than he did. She had
been cast for a low part in the play, and knew it. Sometimes she had
earned the food which kept her alive in ways of which this untempted
young priest had never even heard. There was something in this clean
past of his, in his cold patrician face and luxurious habits new to
her, and she had a greedy relish for it all.

She had been loved before, caressed as men caress a dog, kicking it off
when it becomes troublesome. George's boyish shyness, his reverent awe
of her, startled her.

"He thinks Lisa Arpent a jeune fille--like these others. A little
white rose!" she thought, and laughed. She would not tell him why she
laughed, and muttered an oath when he stupidly insisted on knowing.

He was the first lover who had ever believed in her.

She had begun this affair simply to punish the "old woman"; the man in
it had counted for nothing. But now, as they crossed the gangway, she
looked up at him with eyes that for the moment were honest and true as
a child's, and her firm hand suddenly trembled in his.

Three weeks later Mrs. Waldeaux came into Miss Vance's little parlor on
Half Moon Street. Her face was red from the wind, her eyes sparkled,
and she hummed some gay air which an organ ground outside. Clara laid
down her pen.

"Where have you been, Frances? It is a week since I saw you."

"Oh, everywhere! George has been showing me London!" She sat down
be