"I declare. Honey-bud, you are all rose colour to-day," said Celia

Craig, smiling; and, on impulse, unpinned the pink-and-white cameo

from her own throat and fastened it to Ailsa's breast.

"I reckon I'll slip on a gay gown myse'f," she added mischievously.

"I certainly am becoming ve'y tired of leaving the field to my

sister-in-law, and my schoolgirl daughters."

"Does anybody ever look at us after you come into a room?" asked

Ailsa, laughing; and, turning impulsively, she pressed Celia's

pretty hands flat together and kissed them. "You darling," she

said. An unaccountable sense of expectancy--almost of exhilaration

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was taking possession of her. She looked into the mirror and stood

content with what she saw reflected there.

"How much of a relation is he, Celia?" balancing the rosy bow with

a little cluster of pink hyacinth on the other side.

Celia Craig, forefinger crooked across her lips, considered aloud.

"His mother was bo'n Constance Berkley; her mother was bo'n

Betty Ormond; her mother was bo'n Felicity Paige; her

mother----"

"Oh please! I don't care to know any more!" protested Ailsa,

drawing her sister-in-law before the mirror; and, standing behind

her, rested her soft, round chin on her shoulder, regarding the two

reflected faces.

"That," observed the pretty Southern matron, "is conside'd ve'y bad

luck. When I was a young girl I once peeped into the glass over my

ole mammy's shoulder, and she said I'd sho'ly be punished befo' the

year was done."

"And were you?"

"I don't exactly remember," said Mrs. Craig demurely, "but I think

I first met my husband the ve'y next day."

They both laughed softly, looking at each other in the mirror.

So, in her gown of rosy muslin, bouffant and billowy, a pink flower

in her hair, and Celia's pink-and-white cameo at her whiter throat

Ailsa Paige descended the carpeted stairs and came into the mellow

dimness of the front parlour, where there was much rosewood, and a

French carpet, and glinting prisms on the chandeliers,--and a young

man, standing, dark against a bar of sunshine in which golden motes

swam.

"How do you do," she said, offering her narrow hand, and: "Mrs.

Craig is dressing to receive you. . . . It is warm for April, I

think. How amiable of you to come all the way over from New York.

Mr. Craig and his son Stephen are at business, my cousins, Paige

and Marye, are at school. Won't you sit down?"




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