like a bashful schoolgirl, and ought to be ashamed of myself. It was my place, when I saw that he knew me, to recognize him. How unappreciative and indifferent he must think me—how ill-mannered, when I told him that day that I should never forget him. I am more sorry than I can express, for perhaps he is in Washington only for a few days, and I may never meet him again. How utterly stupid of me!"

But in spite of these keen regrets, the girl's heart was unusually light all day, for the "hero" of her girlhood had more than fulfilled her anticipations; she had realized, during those few months, when they had stood face to face, that he was strong and true and manly in the highest acceptation of the terms; she believed that he was destined to distinguish himself in the future, but what made her especially happy was the fact that he had not forgotten her—that he had been glad to meet her again, as both his look and tone had testified.

With these reflections came the sudden revelation of her exact attitude toward Philip Wentworth. The contrast between the two young men was marked and suggestive. Phil was the pleasure-loving man of the world, living only for what entertainment he could extract from life and society. Clifford Faxon was the thoughtful, conscientious worker, with some high and earnest purpose in view that would not only promote his own individual interests, but also advance the standard of men and methods in general, and Mollie now saw that she had never even been in danger of loving Phil—that he was hardly worthy of even her respect, and she almost scorned herself for having hesitated an instant when he had declared his love for her, a little more than a year ago, during her visit in Brookline.

She had never seen him since leaving Boston, although he had often asserted that he was "coming to Washington." His letters had been growing few and far between, each one colder and more formal in its tone. Not once had he renewed his protestations of love for her, although there was a vein of assumption—a kind of taken-for-granted style in his epistles which might be interpreted to mean much or nothing; there certainly had been nothing tangible in them, and it had been several months now since she last heard from him. But had he remained as true as the needle to the pole, she knew now that she never could have married him after this meeting with Clifford Faxon.

"Oh, any one can see that he is head and shoulders above Phil, mentally, morally, and, almost that, physically," she mused, as she recalled Cliff's splendid physique, his thoughtful face and earnest eyes. "I hope I shall meet him again some day," and the sigh that supplemented this reflection told how deeply she regretted the lost opportunity of the morning.

Clifford Faxon himself was fully as much exercised in view of the unexpected meeting and its unsatisfactory results. He had not observed Mollie particularly at first, except that he had realized that some one had made a misstep, and almost involuntarily he had tried to avert an accident; but the instant she spoke, her tones had betrayed her to him—he had never forgotten them. Many and many a time in his dreams, both waking and sleeping, he had seemed to hear her silvery voice vibrating with its thrill of fervent gratitude in those words so indelibly stamped upon his heart: "You have saved my life—you have saved all our lives, and it is such a wonderful—such a grand thing to have done! I am very grateful to you, for my life is very bright. I love to live. Oh, I cannot say half there is in my heart; but I shall never forget you—I shall love you for your heroism of this day always."

Then, as he had studied the lovely face, he had traced the well-remembered features, even though she had changed and bloomed from the slip of a girl in short dresses and with that shining braid of hair hanging between her shoulders, into this beautiful and stylish young woman, with her perfect form, her queenly carriage and elegant apparel.

He saw that she had recognized him, for he had been quick to note the light that had leaped into her eyes and the conscious flush that had suffused her face, and, though he was disappointed, he was half-inclined to believe what was really the truth, that a sudden shyness, produced by the unexpected encounter, had alone caused her to refrain from referring to their former meeting, and yet, believing her to be still the petted child of fortune and far above him, socially, his sensitiveness suggested that she might not now care to renew their acquaintance—if such it could be called—in spite of her assurance that she should "never forget him."

He also had been in Washington for more than a year. He had come, as he had told Maria Kimberly he contemplated doing, with Mr. Hamilton, who had opened the —— House the first of that season. He had served him for nearly a year, and then, through the influence of some gentlemen who were guests in the hotel, he had secured a government position, and was proving himself so efficient he bade fair to rise still higher in the service of the nation.

It is rather remarkable that he and Mollie should never have met before during all this time; but it was one of those happenings which can never be accounted for.

And even though they had at last encountered each other, he experienced the same perplexity that Mollie had felt, not knowing whether she was there merely for a few days, as a sightseer, and would immediately float away again beyond his reach, or whether her father had some official position and was residing in the city. It was all very tantalizing, especially the fact that he did not even know her name. He had often heard Mrs. Temple call her Mollie, and Philip Wentworth had refused to tell him anything about her, except to boast that she was his fiancée.

Then, as these memories crowded upon him, he caught his breath sharply as a sudden, terrible fear took possession of him. Possibly this fair Mollie, this gloriously beautiful girl, who was his ideal of all that was perfect in womanhood, might already be Philip's wife, for only a day or two previous the Temples had passed him on the street in their carriage, and his former classmate was with them.

When Mollie entered the office that morning she found it empty, Monsieur Lamonti not having arrived, although he was almost invariably there before her. He came a few moments later, however, but appeared sad and preoccupied, and upon Mollie inquiring if he were ill he said no, but that Lucille was far from well. She had been feverish and restless all night. He had called a physician that morning, but he spoke lightly, saying that her indisposition was only the effect of a slight cold, and she would be all right in a day or two.

But the gentleman was evidently very much disturbed, and finally confessed to Mollie that he would be obliged to go to New York that afternoon, and could not return until the next evening. The approaching separation and suspense, he said, seemed almost unbearable, particularly as Lucille was ill.

"I know that Nannette is, as a rule, careful and faithful," he observed, "but somehow I feel very reluctant to leave the child alone with her."

Mollie turned to him eagerly.

"Monsieur, would you feel more comfortable if I should go and remain with Lucille and Nannette until you return?" she inquired.

The man's face cleared instantly at the suggestion.

"Would you be so good, mademoiselle?" he asked in a relieved tone. "Could you be spared from your father?"

"Oh, yes; Eliza can do everything necessary for papa, and I will gladly stay with Lucille," Mollie replied.

Monsieur Lamonti accepted her offer most gratefully, upon this assurance, and when his