no. 15, seaton crescent, toronto, was a students' boarding-house. mrs. dalley, the landlady, declared every day of the university term that they were the hardest set going for a body to put up with. nevertheless, being near the college buildings, she put up with them, both going and coming, and no. 15 was always full. a short street was seaton crescent proper, running between a broad park which bordered the college campus, and a big business thoroughfare. at one end street-cars whizzed up and down with clanging bells, and crowds of busy shoppers hurried to and fro; at the other end spread the green stretches of a park, and farther over stood the stately university. buildings. a street of student boarding-houses it was, and no. 15 stood midway between the clanging and the culture.

but seaton crescent presented much more than a double row of boarding-houses. passing out of its narrow confines, it curved round one side of the park bordered by a grand row of elms. here the houses were mansions, set back in fine old gardens that had smiled there many a summer before the boarding-houses were built. the last house in the row, crescent court, was of a newer date. it was a pretentious apartment house, set up on the corner commanding a view of the campus and the park. just far enough removed from the boarding-house region was crescent court to be quite beyond the noise of the street-cars and the shoppers, and consequently its inmates felt themselves far removed from the work-a-day world.

in one of its front rooms, a little rose-shaded boudoir, luxuriously furnished, sat a lady. she had been handsome once, but her face now bore the marks of age—not the beautiful lines of years gracefully accepted, but the scars of a long battle against their advance. she wore a gay flowered dressing-gown much too youthful in style, her slippered toes were stretched out to the crackling fire, and a cup of fragrant tea was in her hand. her cosy surroundings did not seem to contribute much to her comfort, however, for her face had a look of settled melancholy, and she glanced up frowningly at a girl standing by the window.

"i sometimes think you are growing positively frivolous, beth," she complained. "i don't understand you, in view of the strict religious training both your aunt and i have given you. when i was your age, all church-work appealed strongly to me."

the girl looked far across the stretches of the park, now growing purple and shadowy in the autumn dusk. her gray, star-like eyes were big and wistful. she did not see the winding walks, nor the row of russet elms with the twinkling lights beneath. she saw instead an old-fashioned kitchen with a sweet-faced woman sitting by the window, the golden glow of a winter sunset gilding her white hair. there was an open bible on her knee, and the girl felt again the power of the words she spoke concerning the things that are eternal. she breathed a deep sigh of regret for the brightness of that day so long ago, and wondered if her companion's accusation was true.

"i didn't mean to be frivolous," she said, turning towards the lady in the chair. "i do want to be some use in the world. but all the girls who are getting up this new charitable society are—well, for instance, miss kendall belongs."

"and why shouldn't she? there's nothing incompatible in her being a fine bridge-player and doing church-work. you must get rid of those old-fashioned ideas. take myself, for instance. you know i never neglect my social duties, and nothing but the severest headache ever keeps me from church."

the wistful look in the girl's eyes was being replaced by a twinkle. "but you know a sunday headache is always prostrating," she said daringly.

the lady in the deep chair looked up with an angry flash of her dark eyes; but the girl had stepped out into the light of the fire, revealing the mischievous gleam in her dancing eyes. she knew her power; it was a look the elder woman could rarely resist. for with all their vast differences in temperament there had grown up a warm attachment between these two, since that day, now several years past, when they had run away together from an afternoon tea.

the lady's frown faded; but she spoke gravely.

"beth, don't be so nonsensical. you know it is your duty to me—to yourself, to join the guild. we have not established ourselves socially yet. toronto is ruined by pandering to wealth. i've seen the day when the name of jarvis was sufficient to open any door, but times have changed, and we must make the best of it. but you are culpably careless regarding your best interests. now, i particularly want you to cultivate blanche kendall; the kendalls are the foremost people in st. stephen's church, and if you join this society it will make your position assured. only the best people are admitted. mrs. kendall assured me of that herself. now, don't trifle with your chance in life."

"a chance in life? that's what i've been looking for ever since we came to toronto," said the girl, gazing discontentedly into the fire. "but i don't think it's to be found in st. stephen's church. i hate being of no use in the world."

the elder woman looked amused in her turn, now that she felt she was gaining her point.

"you talk like a child. will you never grow up, i wonder?"

"not likely," said the girl in a lighter tone. she stepped across the room and picked up a fur-lined cloak from a chair. "my body got into long dresses too soon, my soul is still hopping about with a sun-bonnet on, and you really mustn't expect me to be proper and fashionable until i've turned ninety or so. is there any reason why i shouldn't run over and have dinner with jean and the boys to-night?"

"certainly there is. didn't i tell you mr. huntley is just back from the west? he's coming to dinner."

"but you won't want a frivolous person like me round. he'll want to talk business to you all evening."

"that doesn't matter. you ought to be interested in my business. besides, he's a charming bachelor, so i want you to behave nicely."

"i couldn't think of it. i feel sure i'd make a better impression if i stayed away, anyway." she was gathering the dark folds of her cloak about her light evening dress as she spoke. "he might feel embarrassed if we met again. the last time he laid his fortune at my feet and i spurned it with scorn."

"what are you talking about, you absurd child? did you ever meet blake huntley in cheemaun?"

the girl came back to the fire, her eyes dancing. "no, it was in prehistoric times—at forest glen. i remember i was dressed mostly in a sunbonnet and the remains of a pinafore—and i think i was in highland costume as to shoes and stockings. mr. huntley evidently felt sorry for me and offered me a silver dollar, which was too much for my gordon pride. even aunt margaret approved of my refusing it, though she felt it might have been done in a more genteel manner."

the lady in the lounging chair laughed, and her astute young companion saw her chance. "i'm going to run over and see jean and the boys just for five minutes," she said in a wheedling tone. "i shall be back in time for dinner."

"well, see that you are." the elder woman's voice had lost all its fretfulness. she looked quite pleased. "you must remind blake huntley of your former acquaintance. what was he doing at the dale?"

"he had come to see about"—the girl hesitated—"selling old sandy mclachlan's farm." her big gray eyes looked steadily and solemnly into her companion's.

the lady poured herself another cup of tea. she gave an impatient shrug. the old subject of eppie turner's wrongs had become unbearably wearisome. "well, don't air any more of your romantic ideas concerning her. you'll never find her anyway. and don't stay long at no. 15. you go there so often i shall soon begin to suspect you have lost your heart to that bonny prince charlie—he's handsome enough."

"charles stuart?" the girl laughed aloud at the absurdity. "the poor pretender! don't hint your horrible suspicions to him, please, he'd never get over it."

"i'm glad you think it ridiculous. in view of the chances you are likely to have this winter, you'd be a fool to think of him. i hope you have some ambition, beth."

the girl had turned away again and was carefully tucking a magazine into the folds of her cloak. her long eyelashes drooped—that old subject of her ambition was still forbidden ground.

"yes, i have a burning ambition at this very minute to go and see jean and john," she said lightly, and whipping her cloak about her slim figure she waved her hand in a gay farewell and danced away out of the room.

the lady by the fire sighed. "was there ever such a monkey?" she said to herself, and then she smiled. and as the girl ran down the stairs, she also sighed and said to herself: "i wonder how much longer i can bear this life. pshaw, what does it matter anyway?" and then she laughed.

the short autumn day had closed and lights twinkled along the street and blazed on the busy thoroughfare—violet electric stars half-hidden high in the trees and golden gas lamps nearer the earth. the glow of one shone on the girl as she mounted the steps of no. 15 with a graceful little run. it showed her tall and willowy, lit up her sweet face, and the gray, star-like eyes that looked out from beneath heavy masses of nut-brown hair, and was reflected from them with a gleam as of bronze.

she opened the door, as one familiar with the place, and hurried up the steps of the stairs.

"i'm prowling round as usual, mrs. dalley," she called to the landlady who was passing through the lower hall.

the woman's tired face brightened. she liked this miss gordon and was always glad when she dropped in to see her brother and sister. she was ever willing to listen to complaints concerning maids and medical students.

"dear, dear, it must be nice to be you, miss gordon," she sighed, "nothing in the wide world to do. i've been clear distracted this afternoon with that new maid. i dismissed her at last. she would not even carry the plates to the table properly, and as for the way she washed the dishes! really, miss gordon, i tried to do my duty by her. i scolded and explained till i was hoarse. but i believe the hussy was just stubborn. i felt sorry to dismiss her, as it was mr. macallister who asked me to give her a trial. don't say anything to him about it, please, miss gordon. i hate to tell him i had to send her away."

miss gordon laughed. "has mr. macallister turned into an intelligence office? or is he squire of domestic dames?" she retreated up the stairs as she spoke. it was not safe to get caught in the full tide of mrs. dalley's talk, one might find a whole evening swept away by it.

"charles stuart is so queer," she soliloquized. "i wonder what he's up to now."

she tapped briskly upon a bedroom door at the head of the stairs, then shoved it open. a young woman with loose raiment, untidy hair, and a green shade over her eyes looked up from her studies. she raised a book and aimed it threateningly.

"lizzie gordon, don't dare show your idle and frivolous head in this place. miss mills is coming down in five minutes, and we are going to grind for an hour before tea."

"the mills of the gordons grind at most inconvenient seasons," said the visitor giddily. she entered just as though she had been cordially invited, concealing the magazine beneath her cloak. "i'll stay until the wheels begin to rumble, anyway. any letters from home?" she rummaged through the books and papers that littered the table, keeping her magazine carefully hidden.

"just that note from malc. he was home for sunday. jamie's started to the high school, and archie's in john coulson's office. is that really another new dress, lizzie?"

elizabeth, absorbed in malcolm's business flourishes, made no reply. "mrs. jarvis spoils you," her sister continued. "you've had your hair done at the hair-dresser's again, i do believe. do you know that light streak in it has almost disappeared, hasn't it?"

elizabeth folded the letter. the gray star-eyes were very tender. "i'm so glad mary's cough is better. my hair?" she patted the heavy brown braids. "yes, of course. that means that the wild streak is gone. i'm perfectly genteel, i assure you, jean. i left all my improprieties scattered over the continent of europe last summer, and have come home prepared to give up all my penoeuvres."

"i wish you wouldn't use those foolish expressions of sarah emily's, dear, they sound so illiterate."

elizabeth put down the letter and gave her sister's ear a pull.

"jean gordon, you are becoming so horribly particular i'm scared of you. every time i come over here i spend the day before getting out an expurgated edition of everything i intend to say, and even then i fall into rhetorical pits."

"you're hopeless," sighed jean. "what were you at to-day, a tea?"

"yes, some kind of pow-wow of that sort. i'm at one every day." she moved about the room straightening photographs and arranging cushions. "do you know, jean, i'm so tired of it all i feel like running away back home sometimes."

"dear me, you don't know how fortunate you are. you'd soon discover, if you got home, that life at the dale would be dreadfully monotonous."

"it couldn't be more monotonous than fashionable life. those receptions are all so horribly alike. there is always a woman at one end of a polished table cutting striped ice-cream, and another at the other end pouring tea; with a bouquet between them. if i ever so far forget my genteel upbringing as to give a pink tea i'll put the bouquet at one end and make the ice-cream cutter sit in the middle of the table with her feet in the tea-pot."

"don't be absurd. if you dislike it all so thoroughly, why do you do it?"

"mrs. jarvis does it, and i have to go with her. after all, that's the way i earn my living."

"that's the way i'd earn my death in a month," said her sister, looking proudly at the pile of books before her. "are there no girls amongst those you meet who have a purpose in life?"

"none that i've discovered, except the supreme purpose of getting ahead of her dearest friend. society is just like the old teeter we used to ride at school. when rosie carrick was up, i was down, and vice versa."

jean gordon looked at her younger sister seriously. jean took everything in life seriously, and plainly lizzie was determined to continue a problem in spite of her brilliant prospects. she did not understand that the girl's old desire for love and service had grown with the years, and her whole nature was yearning for some expression of it. it was this desire to get back to the old simplicity of life that drove her so often to her brother and sister in their cramped boarding-house.

"why don't you read some improving books," said jean primly. "i wish i had your chance. if mrs. jarvis had taken a fancy to me i'd be a ph.d. some day."

elizabeth regarded her in silent wonder. the hard life of student and teacher which jean still pursued was telling on her. she was pale and stooped, and deep lines marked her forehead. to elizabeth her life seemed a waste of strength. she could never get at jean's point of view.

"and what would you do then—even if you should turn into a p.d.h., or whatever you call him?"

"why, just go on studying, of course."

"until you died?" whispered elizabeth, appalled at the thought of a life-long vista of green eye-shades and miss millses and mathematics.

jean opened her book. "you can't understand," she said patiently. "you haven't any ambition."

it was the old, old accusation under which elizabeth had always lived. she thought of annie's cosy home which three visions now made radiant, of john coulson's love and devotion, and her heart answered the accusation and declared it false. she wondered if other girls were as silently ambitious as she, and why this best of all ambitions must be always locked away in secret, while lesser ones might be proudly proclaimed upon the house-tops.

"evidently i haven't," she said, pulling her cloak about her with a laugh. "i'm a butterfly. gracious! i believe i hear the mills rumbling. i'm going to get out of the way."

"wait and talk to her. she'll fire you with a desire to do something. she's the brainiest woman that's ever come under his tuition, professor telford says."

"i haven't a doubt of it," said elizabeth, with a look of alarm. "that's just the reason i'm scared of her. she's always in a sort of post-graduate attitude of mind when i'm round, and it makes me feel young and foolish. good-night. i'm going up to molest the boys."

"don't bother them long, lizzie—there's a good girl. john needs every minute."

but elizabeth had caught her cloak around her and was already fleeing up the second flight of stairs. she barely escaped miss mills, who was coming down the hall. miss mills did not approve of jean gordon's fashionable sister, and elizabeth feared her clever, sarcastic tongue.

john and charles stuart shared a bedroom and sitting-room on the top flat. elizabeth tapped on the door of the latter room, and in response to a "come in," entered. they were already at work. her brother was doubled up over a table close to a reading-lamp; the pretender was walking the floor note-book in hand. they were men now, these two, both in their last year at college. john gordon had the same dark, solemn face of boyhood, lit by that sudden gleaming smile which made him so resemble his sister. charles stuart had changed more. he was graver and quieter, and a great man in his year at 'varsity by reason of his prowess on the public platform. everyone said macallister would be sure to go into politics, but charles stuart, remembering the wistful look in a beautiful pair of eyes away back in the old home valley, would never say what would be his calling.

elizabeth burst radiantly into the room and was received with joyous acclaim. no matter how busy these two might be, there was never any doubt of her welcome here.

"miss gordon, i declare!" cried the pretender, making a deep bow. he handed her a chair and john pulled her into it.

"hello, betsey! i say it's a great comfort and uplift to malc and me when we toil and moil and perspire up here, to remember there's one lady in the family anyhow. it keeps up a fellow's self-respect."

"i hope you're going to be nice to me," said elizabeth, turning to the other young man. "it's a great strain on a frivolous person like me belonging to a clever family. jean's grinding at the mills, and i came up here for relaxation, and now john's throwing witticisms at me."

"jean's studying too hard," said charles stuart. "it is enough to drive those girls out of their minds the way they go at it."

"well, i hope they won't go that distance. it's hard enough to have them out of temper all the time," said elizabeth. charles stuart was always so staid and solemn, she took an especial pleasure in being frivolous in his presence. she knew he disapproved of her fondness for dress, so she turned to her brother.

"how do you like my new frock, johnny?" she asked.

she slipped out of her cloak, dropping the magazine into a chair with it, and walked across the room, with an exaggerated air of haughty grandeur. the soft gray folds of the gown swept over the carpet. there was a hint of rose-color in it that caught the lamp-light. elizabeth glanced teasingly over her shoulder at the pretender, who turned abruptly away. he was a very poor sort of pretender, after all, and he feared the mocking gaze of those gray eyes. they might read the secret in his own and laugh at it. he picked up the magazine she had dropped and began turning over its pages, just to show his lofty disapproval, elizabeth felt sure.

john proceeded to make sarcastic remarks upon her appearance, while his admiring eyes belied his tongue. but elizabeth and john had never outlived the habits of their reserved childhood, and found it necessary always to keep up a show of indifference lest they reveal the deep tenderness between them. lizzie looked frightfully skinny in the dress, he announced, and her neck was too long by a foot. besides, as her medical adviser, he felt it his duty to tell her that she would likely get tangled up in that long tail and break some of her bones.

"i'll bet a box of chocolates you can't tell the color of it," elizabeth said. she was glancing nervously at charles stuart. he was surely near the place in the magazine. the guessing grew lively, john finally giving his verdict that the dress was "some sort of dark white," when elizabeth saw charles stuart pause and read absorbedly.

"it's your turn, stuart," she cried, to gain time. "john's color-blind."

charles stuart glanced up. it was no easy task this, examining elizabeth's gown, under the fire of her eyes.

"another new dress," he said evasively. "i suppose that woman has been taking you to another green tea this afternoon."

from the day mrs. jarvis had made elizabeth her paid companion, charles stuart had taken a strong dislike to the lady, and always spoke of her as "that woman."

"a 'green tea,'" groaned elizabeth. "charles stuart macallister! it sounds like something auntie jinit would brew at a quiltin'. it's positively shameful not to be better acquainted with the terms of polite society."

"well, here's something i can appreciate," he said, still avoiding her glance and turning to the magazine again. "listen to this. it's as pretty as the dress."

elizabeth stiffened. it was her poem. he walked over to the lamp and read it aloud. it was that old, old one of the moonrise and sunset she had written long ago, now polished and re-dressed in better verse; a pretty little thing, full of color, bright and picturesque, nothing more. but it was elizabeth's first success. the dominion had accepted it with a flattering comment that had made her heart beat faster ever since. but the young poetess was far more anxious as to what "the boys" would think of it than the most critical editor in all broad canada.

charles stuart knew how to read, and he expressed the sentiment of the pretty verses in a way that made elizabeth look at him with her breath suspended. they sounded so much better than she had dared hope.

john looked up with shining eyes. "i've seen that very thing at home, at the dale, in the evening." he turned sharply and looked at his sister's flushed face and downcast eyes. "hooroo!" he shouted. "a poetess! oh, lizzie. this is a terrible blow!" he fell back into his chair and fanned himself.

"do you really truly like it, john?" the author asked tremblingly.

john stretched out his hand for the magazine, and elizabeth, watching him as he read, drew a big breath of joy. she could tell by his kindling eye that he was both proud and pleased. but, as she expected, he expressed no praise.

"there's a good deal of hot air in it, lizzie," he remarked dryly. "and say, you and mac must have been collaborating. he had that very same expression in his speech last night—'member, mac, when you brought down the house that time when you flung something 'against the eternal heavens,' or some such disorderly act. here's lizzie up to the same business."

the young orator looked foolishly pleased, and the young poetess pulled the critic's ears. but her heart was light and joyous. john liked her poem, and that was more to her than the most flattering praise from the public. for elizabeth was much more a woman than a poet.

"you're a barbarian, john gordon," she cried. "he doesn't know a finely turned phrase from a dissecting-knife; does he, stuart? but really, it sounds far better than i thought it could. you read so well."

"when did you take to rhyming, lizzie?" asked her brother. "i really didn't know it was in you."

but elizabeth was watching charles stuart anxiously. he had taken up the magazine again and was reading it absorbedly. she waited, but he said nothing. but those dark, deep eyes of his, so like his mother's, had a wistful look, a look that reminded elizabeth of the expression in mother macallister's on the occasion of her last visit home. she regarded him, rather troubled. what was the matter with her little verses? she knew charles stuart was much more capable of a sound judgment than john; she knew also that his kindly heart would prompt him to say something pleasant if he could.

there was an awkward silence. happily it was broken by the sound of stumbling footsteps in the passage without. the door opened noisily and a wild-looking head, with long, tangled hair, was poked into the room. it emitted in sepulchral tones:

"i say, gordon, will you lend me your bones?"

the wild eyes caught sight of elizabeth, and the visitor backed out suddenly with a look of agony, crashing against the door frame as he disappeared.

"it's bagsley!" cried john, springing up. "hi, bags, come back here!" he whistled as if for a dog.

"he's scared to death of girls," said charles stuart; "better get under the table, lizzie."

"hurrah, bagsley!" cried john cordially, "you can have 'em. here, they're under the bed!"

a tall young man, incredibly thin and disheveled-looking, sidled into the room, moving around elizabeth in a circular course like a shying horse. he stumbled over a chair, begged its pardon, floundered into the adjoining bedroom, and dived under the bed. he reappeared with his arms full of human bones, and shot across the room, muttering something like thanks. as he fled down the dark hall, he collided with a piece of furniture, his burden fell, and with a terrific clatter rolled from the top of the stairs to the bottom. john rushed out to help gather up the fallen, and elizabeth ran across the room and hid her face shudderingly in the folds of her cloak.

"what's the matter?" asked charles stuart, shaking with amusement. "if you feel ill, i'll call old bags back, lizzie. he's a medical—in john's year, and they all say he's going to be gold-medalist."

"u-g-h!" elizabeth sat up and regarded the bedroom door with disgust. "human bones under the bed! charles stuart macallister, i do think medical students are the most abominable——"

"it's a fact," he agreed cordially. "when a man borrows your bones i think the limit is reached. it's bad enough when john borrows my ties and my boots."

he was speaking absently, and elizabeth looked at him. he was glancing down at the magazine again, which was lying open on the table. she went straight to the point. "stuart, you don't like my little verses."

he started. "why, i—what makes you think so? i think they are beautiful—full of light and music and"—he paused.

"you looked disappointed when you finished," she persisted.

he was silent. "what was the reason?"

"i—i was looking for something i couldn't find," he said hesitatingly.

"what?"

"its soul."

"its soul?—'the light that never was on land or sea.' you are too exacting. only real poets do things like that. i'm not a genius."

"you don't need to be. but one must live a real life to write real things," he said bluntly.

"and i don't," she said half-defiantly. she looked at him wonderingly, at his broad shoulders and his grave face, feeling as though this was the first time she had seen him. he seemed suddenly to be entirely unlike the old charles stuart who had always been merely a sort of appendage to john—a second john in fact, only not one-half so dear. it came to her like a revelation that he was not at all the old charles stuart, but somebody new and strange; and he was sitting in judgment upon her useless way of living! she picked up the dominion and at a glance she saw the verses as he saw them. he was right—they were shallow, pretty little things, nothing more. her lip quivered.

"oh, i beg your pardon, lizzie," he was saying contritely—"that's only one opinion—and i may be wrong."

"no, you're right," said elizabeth, "only i didn't see it before."

they were interrupted by john's return. "jean's calling you, lizzie. she's got a pleasant little job for you downstairs. don't be scared. i locked bags and the skeleton into his room. he won't catch you."

elizabeth, glad to get away, ran out and down to the next floor. jean was standing at her room door, the green shade still over her wrinkled brow, her collar and belt both missing. she held up a card.

"lizzie, could you go downstairs and interview the owner of this?" she pleaded, frowningly. "it's a caller. she's been sent by some new society your fashionable friends have organized in st. stephen's. i do wish those idle people would leave busy ones alone. i haven't time to go down, and mills simply won't be bothered."

elizabeth took the card. "miss blanche kendall," she read. "why, this is the very thing mrs. jarvis wants me to join. of course i'll go. what excuse shall i make?"

"anything at all. i don't care."

"very well. i'll tell her my brother has loaned his bones and my sister her clothing, and therefore they cannot come."

jean did not resent the hint regarding her disorderly appearance. she disappeared, slamming the door with a sigh of relief. elizabeth went hopefully downstairs. she was on the whole rather glad of the unexpected meeting. miss kendall she knew to be a very fashionable young lady indeed. hunting up lonely students hardly seemed an occupation that would appeal to her. who knew, the girl told herself, but she had been mistaken, and these young ladies were whole-hearted and sincere in their efforts. she entered the long, dingy parlor fully prepared to learn from miss kendall.

the visitor, a rather handsome young woman in a smart tailored suit, was sitting on the extreme edge of an uncomfortable chair, looking bored. she showed no sign of recognition as elizabeth advanced smilingly. the latter was not surprised. she had met miss kendall only once—at a card-party—and elizabeth had learned long ago that card-parties were not functions where one went to get acquainted with people. she remembered that miss kendall had sat at a table near her, that she had played with a kind of absorbed fury, and had gone off radiant, bearing a huge brass tray, the winner's trophy.

"miss mills?" she inquired, giving two of elizabeth's fingers a twitch.

"no, miss gordon," said elizabeth. "miss mills asks if you will be so good as to excuse her this evening. she has an unusual amount of work." she was about to add an apology for her sister, when miss kendall, looking frankly relieved, broke in: "oh, it doesn't matter. you see, i'm sent by our young women's guild—of st. stephen's, you know; they are trying to call upon all the young women in this district who are away from home and likely to be lonely, and our president gave me seaton crescent. it will be perfectly satisfactory if i just report on them."

she opened a little elegant leather-bound note-book and consulted it in a business-like manner. "i mustn't miss anyone; miss withrow, our president, is so particular. let me see. you are miss gordon,"—she put a mark opposite the name,—"one call; miss mills—two calls. i shall leave her a card. then there are miss brownlee and miss chester—they are out, i understand, but i shall leave cards so i can count them too. now, do you know of any others in this house who should attend st. stephen's?"

elizabeth's eyes were growing bigger every moment. this was an entirely new and original manner of comforting the lonely. evidently miss kendall believed in bringing all her business ability to bear on her acts of charity. "just what i thought they'd do," she said to herself. then her love of mischief came to her undoing. her long lashes drooped over her eyes.

"there are my brother and his friend, mr. macallister," she said with wicked intent.

"oh, i don't want young men," said miss kendall all unsuspicious. "there is another society for looking after them. macallister"—she consulted the note-book. "i think that was the name of the person who sent in another young woman's name—turner. is there a miss turner boarding here?"

elizabeth wondered what in the world charles stuart had to do with it, as she ran over the list of boarders in her mind.

"i can't remember anyone of that name," she answered.

"oh, well, never mind. i have enough, anyway," said the visitor with a relieved sigh. she dropped the little book into her hand-bag and closed it with a snap. then she looked about her as if trying to find something to talk about. elizabeth sat mischievously silent and waited.

the caller seemed to get little inspiration from the furniture. "i was sent to call by our guild, of course," she remarked again, as though she felt it necessary to account for her presence.

"how nice of them," murmured elizabeth. "do you do much of this sort of work, miss kendall?"

"no, this is my first attempt, but i think i have taken it up pretty thoroughly. it comes rather heavy on one who has so many social duties as i have, but of course one does not expect these church calls returned."

"oh," said elizabeth demurely, "i thought one always returned calls."

"oh, not necessarily, i assure you," the lady remarked rather hastily.

"you see, i never received a church call before," said elizabeth meekly.

the visitor looked at her a moment almost suspiciously, but the air of childlike innocence was disarming. there was another long silence, while elizabeth sat with folded hands and vowed that if the church-caller didn't speak before the clock struck twelve neither would she. she was wickedly hoping she was uncomfortable.

miss kendall seemed to suddenly note some incongruity between elizabeth's fashionable attire and the life of a student. she looked more like a milliner or dressmaker, she decided. "do you study very hard?" she inquired at last.

"rather hard," was the sly answer.

"i suppose one must."

"yes, one must." elizabeth had suddenly decided upon her line of action. she remembered how, whenever noah clegg's daughters went a-visiting about forest glen, they would sit for a whole long afternoon with hands primly folded, and reply to all remarks by a polite repetition of the remarker's last statement, never volunteering a word of their own. she could recall a long, hot afternoon when her aunt and annie had essayed alternate remarks upon the weather, the crops, the garden, church, sunday school, and the last sermon, to the verge of nervous prostration without varying their visitors' echoing responses by so much as one syllable. elizabeth felt that miss kendall deserved all the discomfort she could give her. she folded her hands more primly and waited. her victim glanced along the chromos on the wall.

"it's been very warm for november, has it not?" she said at last.

"yes, very warm," said elizabeth, also examining the chromos.

"i suppose you go to church regularly?"

"yes, quite regularly."

"dr. harrison is such a clever speaker, isn't he?"

"yes, very clever."

"his sermons, i think, are quite profound."

"yes indeed, very profound."

it reminded elizabeth of the cantata they had sung in the joyous old days at cheemaun high school, where the chorus answered the soloist again and again with "yes, that's so!" she wondered how long she dared keep it up and not laugh. she began to be just a little afraid that she might give way altogether and make miss kendall think she was quite mad.

but apparently the church call was drawing to a close. the caller once more consulted her notebook and arose. "four calls," she said with a satisfied air. "i wonder if i couldn't put down five. you said there wasn't a miss turner here?"

"no, unless she came recently. shall i inquire?"

"oh, no thank you, i really can't spare the time. i have several other places to visit. i think she's a domestic, mr. macallister said. one has to take all sorts, you know. i can count her, anyway, and here's a card for her if you happen to find her."

elizabeth took the little bundle. she noticed that miss kendall's day was not marked in the corner, but instead the inscription, "st. stephen's young women's christian guild."

"those are our cards," said the visitor, noticing elizabeth's glance. "of course everyone understands by that, that it's not a social call one is making. you see, miss gordon, one must keep those things separate."

"yes, i am sure one ought to," agreed elizabeth with deep meaning, as she bowed the church caller out. she fairly soared to the top flat, convulsed with mirth. jean would not appreciate the church call, she would not see the funny side of it, and might even resent it. but the boys would understand.

they did not fail her, they put away their books and gave themselves over to hilarity as she described the manner in which the young woman's christian guild of st. stephen's had set about welcoming the homeless girls of seaton crescent.

"how 'll you explain your dr. jekyll-and-mr. hyde existence next time you meet miss kendall at a green tea?" asked john as the supper-bell interrupted the nonsense.

elizabeth paused as she gathered up her cloak.

"john gordon! i never thought of that! and i had orders to cultivate her society!" for a moment she looked troubled. "may a kind fate send her a short memory," she added. "come along, which of you isn't too hungry to see me home?"

neither was, and they both saw her safely to the door of the seaton court vestibule; and as she rehearsed the church call once more by the way, she quite forgot to ask charles stuart how his name happened to be mixed up with it.

her eyes were still sparkling with fun, as she ran up the stairs and swept into mrs. jarvis's sitting-room.

"at last!" cried that lady looking up with a pleased smile, and at the same moment a tall man arose from a seat near the fire. he was a very fine-looking gentleman, faultlessly dressed and slightly pompous in manner. a certain stoutness of figure and thinness of hair told that he had passed his youth. he had, moreover, the air of a man who has reached a high rung on the ladder of success.

mrs. jarvis stretched out her hand and drew elizabeth forward, the girl could not help noticing that she seemed pleasurably excited.

"come, beth, here is an old acquaintance. this is mr. huntley, miss gordon."

mr. huntley advanced with a look of genuine pleasure on his rather round face.

"ah," he said, with a most flattering accent. "i am charmed to be presented once more to queen elizabeth."