“And did you notice when Laura Tinley interrupted her conversation with Tracy Runningbrook, how quietly she replied to the fact and nothing else, so that Laura had not another word?”—­“And did you observe her deference to papa, as host?”—­“And did you not see, on more than one occasion, with what consummate ease she would turn a current of dialogue when it had gone far enough?” They had all noticed, seen, and observed.  They agreed that there was a quality beyond art, beyond genius, beyond any special cleverness; and that was, the great social quality of taking, as by nature, without assumption, a queenly position in a circle, and making harmony of all the instruments to be found in it.  High praise of Lady Gosstre ensued.  The ladies of Brookfield allowed themselves to bow to her with the greater humility, owing to the secret sense they nursed of overtopping her still in that ineffable Something which they alone possessed:  a casket little people will be wise in not hurrying our Father Time to open for them, if they would continue to enjoy the jewel they suppose it to contain.  Finally, these energetic young ladies said their prayers by the morning twitter of the birds, and went to their beds, less from a desire for rest than because custom demanded it.

Three days later Emilia was a resident in the house, receiving lessons in demeanour from Cornelia, and in horsemanship from Wilfrid.  She expressed no gratitude for kindnesses or wonder at the change in her fortune, save that pleasure sat like an inextinguishable light on her face.  A splendid new harp arrived one day, ticketed, “For Miss Emilia Belloni.”

“He does not know I have a second Christian name,” was her first remark, after an examination of the instrument.

“‘He?’” quoth Adela.  “May it not have been a lady’s gift?”

Emilia clearly thought not.

“And to whom do you ascribe it?”

“Who sent it to me?  Mr. Pericles, of course.”

She touched the strings immediately, and sighed.

“Are you discontented with the tone, child?” asked Adela.

“No.  I—­I’ll guess what it cost!”

Surely the ladies had reason to think her commonplace!

She explained herself better to Wilfrid, when he returned to Brookfield after a short absence.  Showing the harp, “See what Mr. Pericles thinks me worth!” she said.

“Not more than that?” was his gallant rejoinder.  “Does it suit you?”

“Yes; in every way.”

This was all she said about it.

In the morning after breakfast, she sat at harp or piano, and then ran out to gather wild flowers and learn the names of trees and birds.  On almost all occasions Wilfrid was her companion.  He laughed at the little sisterly revelations the ladies confided concerning her too heartily for them to have any fear that she was other than a toy to him.  Few women are aware with how much ease sentimental men can laugh outwardly at what is internal torment.  They had