down the long hallway, and entered the back drawing-room door. Mrs. Osgood was gracefully ensconced in the corner of a divan from the Orient, and her eyes were fixed apparently upon the latest work of Paul Bourget. A tall, bronze lamp was at her side and its rays were tempered by a carefully selected shade of the most becoming tinge. The other lights were dimmed, and beyond could be seen the subdued forms of graceful plants, while beneath her feet the yielding fur of an Arctic bear half hid two tiny bronze-tipped slippers and just enough of scarlet silk.

Duncan stood silently before her. Uncurbed natures are the most capricious, and as he gazed his anger turned to admiration, and he softly sat down beside her, took her hand, and said winningly, "Nell, dear, let's be friends."

She pushed him away, and with a quick, proud toss of her head coldly said, "Not till my lord Duncan has humbly sued for pardon."

"Pardon for what?"

"For intended flight to the West without permission and leave-taking."

"Am I not, then, the master of my actions?" Duncan replied in a somewhat ruffled tone.

"Not if you expect my favor." Then, lowering her large, black eyes, and pointing authoritatively to the floor, she continued: "Down on your knees and confess you were attempting to act without my knowledge."

Duncan started angrily. He was nettled at the tone of authority she assumed, so he replied: "I will do nothing of the kind. I see no reason why my actions should be accounted to, much less pardoned by, you."

"You big, foolish fellow," she laughingly said. "You have been spoilt by women. You expect that a declaration of independence delivered with so much bluster will anger me. Down on your knees and ask forgiveness."

Duncan jumped to his feet and paced the floor. He was too angry to speak at first, but he finally said in defiant tones: "I should think that my intended departure without your being informed of it, would be sufficient to advise you that your possible feelings on the subject were of supreme indifference to me."

"Indeed!" she replied, carelessly tossing aside the Bourget novel. "So I am to infer that Mr. Duncan Grahame, being weary of the woman upon whom he has previously pretended to bestow his favors, imagines that the easiest, and of course the most manly, way to rid himself of her is surreptitiously to steal away and leave her to discover his change of heart as best she can. Very well, so be it. But I really wish you would not molest that poor bear's head with the toe of your boot. If you have no regard for me, you should, at least, consider the feelings of my rug."

She quietly commenced reading her book, and the careless and continued tapping of the little bronze-toed slipper on the rug seemed to emphasize her apparently complete absorption in the words of the French romancer. There is no man—or woman either—who will not chafe under the strain of indifference, and Duncan was no exception to the rule. Open war he relished, but to be dismissed with peremptory coldness when he had intended to be the aggressor was humiliating to the strongest sentiment of his nature, his pride. He silently watched her, trying, meanwhile, to formulate some plan of action. Angry words rose to his lips but were checked by prudence. He had lost his temper too much, he thought. His eyes carelessly wandered toward the book she was reading; "Cœur de femme" were the words printed across the yellow cover leaf. "If that Frenchman understands his subject," he thought, "she will read somewhere in that book that a woman's heart adores its master and detests its slave. Bourget is an analyst of nature, they say. Could he teach me more than that submission can never be success. Thank you, Monsieur Bourget; your yellow cover has given me an idea." Then, assuming an air of mock humility, he said: "I have been waiting to hear if you have anything further to add to your discharge."

She slowly raised her eyes from her book and said coolly, "Nothing whatever. I think you understand me perfectly; if you are satisfied I am." Then she turned again to the book, apparently vexed at the interruption.

"Very well," he replied. "Since the understanding is mutually perfect, please accept the conventional expressions of leave taking, and permit me to say 'adieu'."

"That is a favor you can easily obtain," she replied. "But pray spare me the task of calling a servant; this book is intensely amusing, and I feel sure you know all the doors of the house."

"By Jove, you are a keen one," Duncan muttered to himself; then he slowly walked to the door, put on his coat, took his hat, turned up his collar, opened the door, and descended the steps. "That woman," he thought, "is a sportsman to the bone, but it will do her good to leave her for a while. She's a thoroughbred, though, and I wish I didn't love her."

Mrs. Osgood listened quietly until the door had shut and the sound of his steps had died away. "So he expected me to act like a school-girl," she said, half aloud. "Some women are fools, I suppose. I am glad he did not bluster any more. I hate a man who loses his temper. So, Mr. Duncan, you want to leave me. You have my permission; but you will soon be back, and then perhaps you will hear me tell you that I—no you won't, for I want to keep your handsome, curly head all for myself."

CHAPTER III.

TWO WOMEN.

We have all seen a manly young fellow go up to college. Full of life and vigor, he sees the world before him; but the thought of all its battles rouses no fear in his young heart, and, though his pranks are boyish and his manners rough, he stumbles good humoredly and persistently on into success. His upper classmen patronizingly smile upon him, while his natural enemy, the Soph, taunts and teases him, but is sometimes brought down and punished by his strong, young arms. Youthful, growing Chicago reminds one of this college boy. She has left the school of preparation and has taken her place among the great cities of the earth, where, full of energy and life, she is fighting her way to the front. Her mature colleagues of the Old World smile patronizingly at her efforts, but doubt her powers; while the cities of the East, seeing in her a young rival, taunt and ridicule her with jealous anger. She is young; but strong and active; and if she is sometimes carried away by the very energy of her youth, she is never daunted, and the older cities of the East have already felt the vigor of her sinewy grasp. Chicago, with her broad avenues and stupendous buildings, her spacious parks and stately homes, her far-reaching railways and towering chimneys, her bustling marts and busy, surging crowds of active men and women, is the archetype of American energy,—the creation of yesterday and the marvel of to-day. But the mortar is scarcely dry and the stones are still undimmed by time. She is as the mason, the carpenter, and the builder have left her—crude and fresh, without the dignified stains of age, without the majestic polish which time alone can give. Her social structure, like her brick and mortar buildings, is solidly laid and firmly built, but new. Her people built Chicago and she is the best memorial of their energy. They are still young and vigorous; in them the ardor of the pioneer is scarcely dead; the lethargy of long-held wealth has yet to come.

In the library of an imposing, but new, grey stone mansion on Chicago's Lake Shore Drive two women were dawdling together over Petrarch's "Canzoniere" in the original. A well-thumbed dictionary was in the lap of one, and by the other's side lay Volume IV. of Symond's "Renaissance in Italy." It was cold January, and the broad, low window showed the angry lake dashing against the great sea wall and splashing the sparkling spray far over the roadway. The moaning north wind furiously rattled the long casements and sent occasional puffs of smoke and cinders out from the brightly blazing hearth fire; but these outward signs of winter were unable