“Who is that talking with Miss Stuyvesant?” asked Mr. Sylvester, approaching his wife during one of the lulls that will fall at times upon vast assemblies.

Mrs. Sylvester followed the direction of his glance and immediately responded, “O that is Mr. Ensign, one of the best partis of the season. He evidently knows where to pay his court.”

“I inquired because he has just requested me to honor him with a formal introduction to Paula.”

“Indeed! then oblige him by all means; it would be a great match for her. To say nothing of his wealth, he is haut ton, and his red whiskers will not look badly beside Paula’s dark hair.”

Mr. Sylvester frowned, then sighed, but in a few minutes Paula observed him approaching with Mr. Ensign. At once her hitherto pale cheek flushed, but the young gentleman did not seem to object to that, and after the formal introduction which he had sought was over, he exclaimed in his own bright ringing tones,

“The fates have surely forgotten their usual role of unpropitiousness. I did not dare hope to meet you here tonight, Miss Fairchild. Was the ride all that your fancy painted?”

“O,” said she, speaking very low and glancing around, “do not allude to it here. We had an adventure shortly after you parted from us.”

“An adventure! and no cavalier at your side! If I could but have known! Was it so serious?” he inquired in a moment, seeing her look grave.

“Ask Miss Stuyvesant;” said she. “I cannot talk about it any more tonight. Besides the music carries off one’s thoughts. It is like a joyous breeze that whirls away the thistledown whether it will or no.”

He gave her a short quick look grave enough in its way, but responded with his usual graceful humor, “The thistledown is too vicious a sprite to be beguiled away so easily. If I were to give my opinion on the subject, I should say there was method in its madness. If you have been brought up in the country, as I suspect from your remark, you must know that the white floating ball is not as harmless as it would lead you to imagine. It is a meddlesome nobody, that’s what it is, and like some country gossips I know, launches forth from a pure love of mischief to establish his prickers in his neighbor’s field.”

“His! I thought it must be feminine at least to fulfill the conditions you mention. A male gossip, O fie! I shall never have patience with a thistle-ball after this.”

“Well,” laughed he, “I did start with the intention of making it feminine, but I caught a glimpse of your eyes and lost my courage. I did what I could,” added he with a mirthful glance.

“So do the thistles,” cried she. Then while both voices joined in a merry laugh, she continued, “But where have we strayed? For a moment it seemed as if we were on the hills at Grotewell; I could almost see the blue sky.”

“And I,” said he, with his eyes on her face.

“I am sure the brooks bubbled.”

“I distinctly heard a bird singing.”

“It was a whippowill.”

“But my name is Clarence?”

And here both being young and without a care in the world, they laughed again. And the crowded perfumed room seemed to freshen as with a whiff of mountain air.

“You love the country, Miss Fairchild?”

“Yes;” and her smile was the reflection of the summer-lands that arose before her at the word. “With the right side of my heart do I love the spot where nature speaks and man is dumb.”

“And with the left?”

“I love the place where great men congregate to face their destiny and control it.”

“The latter is the deeper love,” said he.

She nodded her head and then said, “I need both to make me happy. Sometimes as I walk these city streets, I feel as if my very longing to escape to the heart of the hills, would carry me there. I remember when I was a child, I was one day running through a meadow, when suddenly a whole flock of birds flew up from the grass and surrounded my head. I was not sure but what I should be caught up and carried away by the force of their flight; and when they rose to mid heaven, something in my breast seemed to follow them. So it is often with me here, only that it is the rush of my thoughts that threatens such a Hegira. Yet if I were to be transported to my native hills, I know I should long to be back again.”

“The mountain lassie has wandered into the courts of the king. The perfume of palaces is not easily forgotten.”

Her eye turned towards Mr. Sylvester standing near them upright and firm, talking to a group of attentive gentlemen every one of whom boasted a name of more than local celebrity. “Without a royal heart to govern, there would be no palace;” said she, and blushed under a sudden sense of the possible interpretation he might give to her words, till the rose in her hand looked pallid.

But he had followed her glance and understood her better than she thought. “And Mr. Sylvester has such a heart, so a hundred good fellows have told me. You are fortunate to see the city from the loophole of such a home as his.”

“It is more than a loophole,” said she.

“Of that I shall never be satisfied till I see it?”

And being content with the look he received, he took her on his arm and led her into the midst of the dancers.

Meanwhile in a certain corner not far off, two gentlemen were talking.

“Sylvester shows off well tonight.”

“He always does. With such a figure as that, a man needs but to enter a room to make himself felt. But then he’s a good talker too. Ever heard him speak?”

“No.”

“Fine voice, true snap, right ring. Great favorite at elections. The fact is, Sylvester is a remarkable man.”

“Hum, ha, so I should judge.”

“And so fortunate! He has never been known to run foul in a great operation. Put your money in his hand and whew!⁠—your fortune is as good as made.”

The other, a rich man, connected heavily with the mining business in Colorado, smiled with that bland overflow of the whole countenance which is sometimes seen in large men of great self-importance.

“It’s a pity he’s gone out of Wall Street,” continued his companion. “The younger fry feel now something like a flock of sheep that has lost its bellwether.”

“They straggle⁠—eh?” returned his portly friend with an increase of his smile that was not altogether pleasant. “So Sylvester has left Wall Street?”

“He closed his last enterprise two weeks before accepting the Presidency of the Madison Bank. Stuyvesant is down on speculation, and well⁠—It looks better you know; the Madison Bank is an old institution, and Sylvester is ambitious. There’ll be no reckless handling of funds there.”

“No!” What was there in that no that made the other look up? “I’m not acquainted with Sylvester myself. Has he much family?”

“A wife⁠—there she is, that handsome woman talking with Ditman⁠—and a daughter, niece or somebody who just now is setting all our young scapegraces by the ears. You can see her if you just crane your neck a little.”

“Humph, ha, very pretty, very pretty. How much do you suppose Mrs. Sylvester is worth as she stands, diamonds you know, and all that?”

“Well I should say some where near ten thousand; that sprig in her hair cost a clean five.”

“So, so. They live in a handsome house I suppose?”

“A regular palace, corner of Fifth Avenue and ⸻”

“All his?”

“Nobody’s else I reckon.”

“Sports horses and carriage I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“Yacht, opera box?”

“No reason why he shouldn’t.”

“What is his salary?”

“A nominal sum, five or ten thousand perhaps.”

“Owns good share of the bank’s stock I presume?”

“Enough to control it.”

“Below par though?”

“A trifle, going up, however.”

“And don’t speculate?”

The way this man drawled his words was excessively disagreeable.

“Not that anyone knows of. He’s made his fortune and now asks only to enjoy it.”

The man from the West strutted back and looked at his companion knowingly. “What do you think of my judgment, Stadler?”

“None better this side of the Pacific.”

“Pretty good at spying out cracks, eh?”

“I wouldn’t like to undertake the puttying up that would deceive you.”

“Humph! Well then, mark this. In two months from today you will see Mr. Sylvester rent his house and go south for his health, or the pretty one over there will marry one of the scapegraces you mention, who will lend the man who don’t engage in any further ventures, more than one or two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Ha, you know something.”

“I own mines in Colorado and I have my points.”

“And Mr. Sylvester?”

“Will find them too sharp for him.”

And having made his joke, he yielded to the other’s apparent restlessness, and they sauntered off.

They did not observe a pale, demure, little lady that sat near them abstractedly nodding her dainty head to the remarks of a pale-whiskered youth at her side, nor notice the emotion with which she suddenly rose at their departure and dismissed her chattering companion on some impromptu errand. It was only one of the ordinary group of dancers, a pretty, plainly dressed girl, but her name was Stuyvesant.

Rising with a decision that gave a very attractive color to her cheeks, she hastily looked around. A trio of young gentlemen started towards her but she gave them no encouragement; her eye had detected Mr. Sylvester’s tall figure a few feet off and it was to him she desired to speak. But at her first movement in his direction, her glance encountered another face, and like a stream that melts into a rushing torrent, her purpose seemed to vanish, leaving her quivering with a new emotion of so vivid a character she involuntarily looked about her for a refuge.

But in another instant her eyes had again sought the countenance that had so moved her, and finding it bent upon her own, faltered a little and unconsciously allowed the lilies she was carrying to drop from her hand. Before she realized her loss, the face before her had vanished, and with it something of her hesitation and alarm.

With a hasty action she drew near Mr. Sylvester. “Will you lend me your arm for a minute?” she asked, with her usual appealing look rendered doubly forcible by the experience of a moment before.

“Miss Stuyvesant! I am happy to see you.”

Never had his face looked more cheerful she thought, never had his smile struck her more pleasantly.

“A little talk with a little girl will not hinder you too much, will it?” she queried, glancing at the group of gentlemen that had shrunk back at her approach.

“Do you call that hindrance which relieves one from listening to quotations of bank stock at an evening reception?”

She shook her head with a confused movement, and led him up before a stand of flowering exotics.

“I want to tell you something,” she said eagerly but with a marked timidity also, the tall form beside her looked so imposing for all its encouraging bend. “I beg your pardon if I am doing wrong, but papa regards you with such esteem and⁠—Mr. Sylvester do you know a man by the name of Stadler?”

Astonished at such a question from lips so young and dainty, he turned and surveyed her for a moment with quick surprise. Something in her aspect struck him. He answered at once and without circumlocution. “Yes, if you refer to that spry keen-faced man, just entering the supper-room.”

“Do you know his companion?” she proceeded; “the portly, highly pompous-looking gentleman with the gold eyeglasses? Look quickly.”

“No.” There was an uneasiness in his tone however that struck her painfully.

“He is a stranger in town; has not the honor of your acquaintance he says, but from the questions he asked, I judge he has a great interest in your affairs. He spoke of being connected with mines in Colorado. I was sitting behind a curtain and overheard what was said.”

Mr. Sylvester turned pale and regarded her attentively. “Might I be so bold,” he inquired after a moment, “as to ask you what that was?”

“Yes, sir, certainly, but it is even harder for me to repeat than it was for me to hear. He inquired about your domestic concerns, your home and your income,” she murmured blushing; “and then said, in what I thought was a somewhat exulting tone, that in two months or so we should see you go South for your health or⁠—Is not that enough for me to tell you, Mr. Sylvester?”

He gave her a short stare, opened his lips as if to speak, then turned abruptly aside and began picking mechanically at the blossoms before him.

“I, of course, do not know what men mean when they talk of possessing points. But the leer and side glance which accompanies such talk, have a universal language we all understand, and I felt that I must warn you of that man’s malice if only because papa regards you so highly.”

He shrank as if touched on a sore place, but bowed and answered the wistful appeal of her glance with a shadow of his usual smile, then he turned, and looking towards the door through which the two men had disappeared, made a movement as if he would follow. But remembering himself, escorted her to a seat, saying as he did so:

“You are very kind, Miss Stuyvesant; please say nothing of this to Paula.”

She bowed and a flitting smile crossed her upturned countenance. “I am not much of a gossip, Mr. Sylvester, or I should have been tempted to have carried my information to my father instead of to you.”

He understood the implied promise in this remark and gave the hand on his arm a quick pressure, before relinquishing her to the care of the pale-complexioned youth who by this time had returned to her side.

In another moment Paula came up on the arm of a black-whiskered gentleman all shirt front and eyeglasses. “O Cicely,” she cried, (she called Miss Stuyvesant, Cicely now) “is it not a delightful evening?”

“Are you enjoying yourself so much?” inquired that somewhat agitated little lady, with a glance at the countenance of her friend’s attendant.

“I fear it would scarcely seem consistent in me now to say no,” returned the radiant girl, with a laughing glance towards the same gentleman.

But when they were alone, the gentleman having departed on some of the innumerable errands with which ladies seem to delight in afflicting their attendant cavaliers at balls or receptions, she atoned for that glance by remarking,

“I do not find the average partner that falls to one’s lot in such receptions all that fancy paints.” And then finding she had repeated a phrase of Mr. Ensign’s, blushed, though no one stood near her but Cicely.

“Fancy’s brush would need to be dipped in but two colors to present to our eye the mass of them,” was Cicely’s laughing reply. “A streak of black for the coat, and a daub of white for the shirt front. Voila tout.”

“With perhaps a dash of red in some cases,” murmured a voice over their shoulders.

They turned with hurried blushes. “Ah, Mr. Ensign,” quoth Cicely in unabashed gaiety, “we reserve red for the exceptions. We did not intend to include our acknowledged friends in our somewhat sweeping assertion.”

“Ah, I see, the black streak and the white daub are a symbol of, ‘Er⁠—Miss Stuyvesant⁠—very warm this evening! Have an ice, do. I always have an ice after dancing; so refreshing, you know.’ ”

The manner in which he imitated the usual languid drawl of certain of the young scapegraces heretofore mentioned, was irresistible. Paula forgot her confusion in her mirth.

“You are blessed with a capacity for playing both roles, I perceive,” cried Cicely with unusual abandon. “Well, it is convenient, there is nothing like scope.”

“Unless it is hope,” whispered Mr. Ensign so low that only Paula could hear.

“But I warn you,” continued Cicely, with a sweet soft laugh that seemed to carry her heart far out into the passing throng, “that we have no fondness for the model beau of the period. A dish of milk makes a very good supper but it looks decidedly pale on the dinner table.”

“Yes,” said Paula, eying the various young men that filed up and down before them, some pale, some dark, some handsome, some plain, but all smiling and dapper, if not debonair, “some men could be endured if only they were not men.”

Mr. Ensign gave her a quick look, and while he laughed at the paradox, straightened himself like one who could be a man if the occasion called. She saw the action and blushed.

But their conversation was soon interrupted. Mr. Sylvester was seen returning from the supper-room, looking decidedly anxious, and while Paula was ignorant of what had transpired to annoy him, her ready spirit caught the alarm, and she was about to rush up to him and address him, when one of the waiters approached, and murmuring a few words she did not hear, handed him a card upon which she descried nothing but a simple circle. Instantly a change crossed his already agitated countenance, and advancing to the ladies with a word or two that while seemingly cheerful, struck Paula as somewhat forced, excused himself with the information that a business friend had been so inconsiderate as to importune him for an interview in the hall. And with just a nod towards Mr. Ensign, who had drawn back at his advance, left them and disappeared in the crowd about the door.

“I do not like these interruptions from business friends in a time of pleasure,” cried Paula, looking after him with anxious eyes. “Did you notice how agitated he seemed, Cicely? And half an hour ago he was the picture of calm enjoyment.”

“Business is beyond our comprehension, Paula,” returned her friend evasively. “It is something like a neuralgic twinge, it takes a man when he least expects it. Have you told Mr. Ensign of our adventure?”

“No, but I informed Mr. Sylvester, and he said such good, true words to me, Cicely. I can never forget them.”

“And I told papa; but he only frowned and made some observation about the degeneracy of the times, and the number of scamps thrown to the top by the modern methods of acquiring instantaneous fortunes.”

“Your papa is sometimes hard, is he not, Cicely?”

With a flush Miss Stuyvesant allowed her eye to rest for a moment on the crowd shifting before her. “He was dug from a quarry of granite, Paula. He is both hard and substantial; capable of being hewn but not of being moulded. Of such stuff are formed monuments of enduring beauty and solidity. You must do papa justice.”

“I do, but I sometimes have a feeling as if the granite column would fall and crush me, Cicely.”

“You, Paula?”

Before she could again reply, Mr. Sylvester returned. His face was still pale, but it had acquired an expression of rigidity even more alarming to Paula than its previous aspect of forced merriment. Lifting her by the hand, he drew her apart.

“I shall have to leave you somewhat abruptly,” said he. “An important matter demands my instant attention. Bertram is somewhere here, and will see that you and Ona arrive home in safety. You won’t allow your enjoyment to be clouded by my hasty departure, will you?”

“Not if it will make you anxious. But I would rather go home with you now. I am sure Cousin Ona would be willing.”

“But I am not going home at present,” said he; and she ventured upon no further remonstrance.

But her enjoyment was clouded; the sight of suffering or anxiety on that face was more than she could bear; and ere long she said good night to Cicely, and accepting the arm of Mr. Ensign, who was never very far from her side, proceeded to search for her cousin.

She found her standing in the midst of an admiring throng to whom her diamonds, if not her smiles, were an object of undoubted interest. She was in the full tide of one of her longest and most widely rambling speeches, and to Paula, with that stir of anxiety at her breast, was an image of self-satisfied complacency from which she was fain to drop her eyes.

“Mrs. Sylvester shares the honors with her husband,” remarked Mr. Ensign as they drew near.

“But not the trials, or the pain, or the care?” was Paula’s inward comment.

Mrs. Sylvester was not easily wooed away from a circle in which she found herself creating such an impression, but at length she yielded to Paula’s importunities, and consented to accept young Mr. Sylvester’s attendance to their home. The next thing was to find Bertram. Mr. Ensign engaged to do this. Leaving Paula with her cousin, who may or may not have been pleased at this sudden addition to her circle, he sought for the young man who as Mr. Mandeville was not unknown to any of the fashionable men and women of the day. It was no easy task, nor did he find him readily, but at last he came upon him leaning out of a window and gazing at a white lily which he held in his hand. Without preamble, Mr. Ensign made known his errand, and Bertram at once prepared to accompany him back to the ladies.

“By Jove! I didn’t know the fellow was so handsome!” thought the former, and frowned he hardly knew why. Bertram was not handsome, but then Clarence Ensign was plain, which Bertram certainly was not.

It was to Mr. Ensign’s face however that Paula’s eyes turned as the two came up, and he with the ready vivacity of his natural temperament observed it, and took courage.

“I shall soon wish to measure that loophole of which I have spoken,” said he.

And the soft look in her large dark eye as she responded, “It is always open to friends,” filled up the measure of his cup of happiness; a cup which unlike hers, had not been darkened that day by the falling of earth’s most dismal shadows.