all his wealth of bronze.

"Oh," he says, suddenly, "I have brought you an old friend. I could not
bear to leave her in a great city among strangers, and promised her a
welcome with you. Indeed, I do not believe she has any 'nearer of kin,'
after all."

They all take a step forward, still in wonder. Floyd hands her out,--a
very elegant woman, who is one handsome and harmonious line, from the
French hat down to the faultless kid boot.

"I told Mr. Grandon it would be awkward and out of order," she says in
a slow, melodious voice that has a peculiar lingering cadence. "But he
is most imperious," and her smile dazzles them. "And you must pardon me
for allowing myself to be persuaded. It was so tempting to come among
friends."

Clearly she is not his wife now, whatever she may be in the future.
Mrs. Grandon draws a breath of relief, and there is a pleasant
confusion of welcome.

"Yes, I told her such scruples were foolish," says Floyd, in a
straightforward way that is almost abrupt. Then turning to the
carriage, adds, "And here is my little English daughter, Cecil!"

"O Floyd! what a lovely child! Does she really belong to you?" And
Laura glances from one to the other, then dashes forward and clasps
Cecil, who shrinks away and clings to her father.

"She is rather shy," he says, half proudly, half in apology; but Laura,
who does not care a fig for children in general, kisses Cecil in spite
of resistance. "Mother, I have added to your dignity by bringing home a
granddaughter." Then, with a tender inflection, "This is grandmamma,
Cecil."

Cecil allows herself to be kissed this time without resistance but she
clings tightly to her father.

"What magnificent eyes! true twilight tint, and such hair! Floyd, how
odd to think of you as----"

"You are warm and tired," Mrs. Grandon is saying. "Your rooms are ready
up-stairs."

"Don't send away the carriage, Eugene," cries Laura, "I want it a
little while." Then she follows the small throng up the broad steps and
into the spacious hall, while the visitor is keeping up a delicate
little conversation with her hostess. Gertrude looks old and faded
beside this regal woman. Perhaps she feels it, for she goes back to her
couch and her novel.

"Oh," exclaims Eugene, springing up the steps two at a time, "here is
Madame Lepelletier's satchel! You left it in the carriage," handing it
to her.

They are all relieved to actually hear her name. Laura leads her to the
state chamb