The Golden Key E-Book

Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

• Herausgeber: Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

“Nannie, I cannot bear it!”“Hush, Alice; you must not give way to such wild grief—the excitement will be very bad for you.”“But what will Adam say? It will be a terrible blow; his heart was so set upon the fulfilment of his hopes, and now——”

Leseprobe

The Golden Key

By

Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

PROLOGUE.A RESPONSIVE HEART.

“Nannie, I cannot bear it!”

“Hush, Alice; you must not give way to such wild grief—the excitement will be very bad for you.”

“But what will Adam say? It will be a terrible blow; his heart was so set upon the fulfilment of his hopes, and now——”

A heart-broken wail completed the sentence as the pale, beautiful woman, resting upon the snowy pillows of an old-fashioned canopied bed, covered her face with her delicate hands and fell to sobbing with a wild sorrow which shook her slight frame from head to foot.

“Alice! Alice! Don’t! Adam will come home to find that he has lost both wife and child if you do not try to control yourself.”

The latter speaker, a tall, muscular woman, with a kindly but resolute face, which bespoke a strong character as well as a tender heart, knelt beside the bed, and laid her cheek against the colorless one upon the pillow with motherly tenderness and sympathy. But her appealing words only seemed to increase the violence of the invalid’s grief, and, with a look of anxiety sweeping over her countenance, the woman arose, after a moment, when, pouring a few drops from a bottle into a spoon, she briefly informed her charge that it was time for her medicine.

The younger woman meekly swallowed the potion, although her bosom continued to heave with sobs, and tears still rained over her hueless cheeks.

Her companion sat down near her, an expression of patient endurance on her face, and in the course of fifteen or twenty minutes she was rewarded by seeing the invalid fall into a profound slumber.

“Thank Heaven!” she muttered at last, with a sigh of relief, “there will be an interval of rest, but I dread the awakening.”

Miss Nancy Porter was a spinster, upward of forty, and one of those stanch, reliable women who always seem like a bulwark of strength, and equal to any emergency.

She was, by profession, a trained nurse, having, many years previous, served her time in the Massachusetts General Hospital, of Boston, after which her experience was wide and varied,winning for herself encomiums from both surgeons and physicians, and the unbounded confidence of those who were fortunate enough to secure her services in the sick-room.

She had her own home in one of the suburban towns of Boston, where she lived with her one trusty maid in a quiet, restful way, when her services were not in demand elsewhere.

It was into this peaceful home that her only sister had come, about a month previous, to remain until the return of her husband, who had been called abroad upon urgent business.

Adam Brewster was a wealthy banker of New York City.

He was several years older than sweet Alice Porter, whom he had met and fallen in love with some two years previous, and who had been his idolized wife for little more than twelve months.

It had been a great trial that he could not take his dear one to Europe with him; but her physician utterly prohibited such a trip for the young wife, and thus she had gone to spend the interval of her husband’s absence with her sister, in the home of her childhood, and where a tiny little girl was born into the world, only to breathe faintly for a few moments, and them slip away into the great unknown.

For hours after the birth and death of her little one, Alice Brewster had lain in a state of unconsciousness, which caused the heart of her faithful nurse and sister to quake with fear.

But, when consciousness returned, and the youthful mother called for her little one, and she was obliged to tell her that she was childless, her heart almost failed her again, in view of the bitter disappointment and violent sorrow which once more threatened to snap the slender thread of life.

She could only temporarily quell these outbursts of grief by administering powerful narcotics to induce sleep and oblivion, with the hope that calmness and resignation would come with returning strength.

On the afternoon of the third day the storm, which had prevented the sending of a doctor, cleared, and about five o’clock Miss Porter went down-stairs into the kitchen, where her servant was quietly engaged with her domestic duties.

“Sarah, I’m going to town to see Doctor Bowman,” she remarked, in grave, subdued tones, an anxious expression in her mild, gray eyes. “Mrs. Brewster is sleeping, but I want you to go up and sit by her until I return, which won’t be very long, and if she wakes, give her two teaspoonfuls of the medicine in the glass that is on the mantel.”

“Yes, marm,” responded Sarah, as she changed her calico apron for a white one, preparatory to going up-stairs.

“And—if any one comes in,” pursued Miss Porter thoughtfully, “tell them nothing! You can simply say I am out, and Mrs. Brewster is lying down. I don’t want any gossip started. I’ll tell my own story.”

“Yes, marm,” said Sarah again, and her mistress hurried away.

She was just in time to catch the five-twenty express for town, where she arrived just on the stroke of six, when she proceeded directly to the waiting-room to leave her waterproof and umbrella with the woman in charge, while she made a visit to her physician.

She did not find her in the outer room, and so went on into the ladies’ private siting-room, which she found to be empty, quite an unusual occurrence, although doubtless the recent tempest was the reason why so few people were abroad.

At least Miss Porter thought the place was empty, until a faint sound greeted her ear, when she started forward and peeped around a corner, to find only an animated bundle wrapped in a gray shawl lying upon the great square table standing there.

“It’s a baby!” muttered Miss Porter in astonishment, “but where on earth is the mother?”

Prompted by both curiosity and interest, she went to the child, and, parting the shawl, which was closely wrapped about it, discovered an infant, which her practised eye told her could not be over a week old, if, indeed, it had seen as many days as that.

Her first thought was that the mother, or whoever had the child in charge, had left it just for the moment sleeping upon the table; then, suddenly, a terrible shock, which set every nerve in her body quivering with a painful thrill, went through her as she caught sight of a note that had been pinned to the fine flannel blanket that was wrapped about the infant under the shawl.

“Good heavens! it is an abandoned baby!” she breathed, as she mechanically but tenderly gathered it into her strong arms and tried to hush it upon her breast.

Evidently, the child had been drugged, for it dropped off to sleep almost immediately, and then Miss Porter, with trembling fingers and two scarlet spots upon her cheeks, denoting great mental excitement, detached the note from the blanket, and, opening it, read:

“Will some kind woman take this child, or see that it finds a good home where it will be well reared? Nothing but direst necessity compels her abandonment. She is well and honorably born, and yet relentless fate makes her an outcast from her own kindred. A peculiar-shaped golden key, in the form of a pin, is fastened to her clothing—it is her only heritage. Will whoever responds to this appeal insert in an early issue of the Boston Transcript under the head of personals, the following: ‘X. Y. Z.—The golden key has unlocked a responsive heart,’ and relieve the writer of this of a heavy burden?”

“H’m!” ejaculated Miss Porter, as she refolded the note, and began to look for the golden key.

She found it pinned to the yoke of the child’s dainty dress—an oddly fashioned trinket, the thumb-piece ornamented with a small pansy, in the heart of which there flashed a tiny but flawless diamond.

“Well! For once I have had a genuine adventure in my plodding, practical life!” the woman muttered to herself. “Everything about this child shows that she was born of a wealthy mother—some rich girl, maybe, whose good name was more to her than the life and welfare of her own flesh and blood. Oh, dear, what a world it is! Those who yearn for these little ones are deprived of them, while there is no place, no love for others. It is a beautiful babe, too,” she continued, bending over the little sleeper and noting the soft, curling rings of glossy brown hair on the small head, the delicate, regular features of the little face, and the dainty, perfect hands that were folded on the gently heaving breast. “Poor little waif! What shall I do with you?” she concluded, with a long-drawn, regretful sigh.

Then she sat suddenly erect, her face becoming almost as rigid as that of a statue, while she scarcely seemed to breathe, so absorbed had she become in her own startled reflections.

“Nancy Porter, I wonder if you could manage it?—I wonder if you dare do it?” she breathed at last, with lips in which there was not an atom of color. “Alice would never survive another such tax upon her delicate constitution; Adam Brewster would never be content without an heir to his great fortune. Well, I’m going to try it, and save her heart from breaking.”

With a resolute gleam in her gray eyes, a settled purpose in every line of her strong, honest face, she began to wrap the child in the soft, warm shawl which she had partially removed, paying no attention to the woman in charge—who at that moment came into the room and began to busily brandish a great feather duster—although she was uncomfortably conscious that she was being regarded with a curious, questioning glance.

But Miss Nancy Porter had run many a difficult gauntlet, and faced many emergencies, during her checkered life, and her stanch heart and brave front did not fail her now.

Having arranged everything about her charge to her satisfaction, she arose and deliberately walked from the room, passed out of the nearest door of the one beyond, and, joining the hurrying crowd that surging toward the outward-bound trains, without giving another thought to the errand which had brought her to town, found herself just in season to board a return local.

She did not see in the car a person whom she knew; yet, knowing that there might be acquaintances on the train, she decided to leave it at a station two miles below her own town, and about a mile and a half from her home, which was located between the two villages.

It was dark when she alighted, and it was with a deep sigh of satisfaction that she slipped away in the gloom.

She did not meet a single person on the way—it was a lonely road, with only a few scattered farmhouses to be passed—and arrived at her own door just as the old-fashioned clock of a previous generation standing in the hall solemnly tolled off the hour of eight.

A glance in at the kitchen window as she passed had told her that Sarah was still upstairs with her patient, and, passing softly around to the front door, which she noiselessly opened with a latchkey, she walked through the “best room” to the “parlor bedroom,” where she laid her charge upon the bed, thankful for the potency of the drug which still held its senses locked in slumber, and glad to have her aching arms relieved of their burden.

Then, closing both doors after her, she passed up-stairs to the sick-room, removing her bonnet and wrap as she went, when she dismissed Sarah to her interrupted work in the kitchen below, and then sat down to rest and await the awakening of the frail sleeper upon the bed.

An hour later, Miss Porter suddenly appeared in her bright, cheerful kitchen, bearing a beautiful babe in her arms, while a tender expression seemed to have softened and illumined her usually grave, almost austere face.

“Goodness sakes, alive!” exclaimed Sarah, springing to her feet, with a startled air, her wild eyes fastened upon the infant.

“Hush!” said Miss Porter authoritatively. “Has any one been here since I left home?”

“Not a soul,” said the girl, but with still gaping eyes and mouth.

“Good!” returned the mistress in a satisfied tone; “and now, Sarah, you are to remember that a baby girl was born here on Monday night, October 2. No one save you and I and Mrs. Brewster know of the fact as yet; but I shall have it recorded to-morrow morning, when a letter will also be mailed to Mr. Brewster, announcing that he has a fine little daughter.”

“But——” began Sarah, looking dazed and troubled.

“There are no ‘buts,’ Sarah,” curtly interposed Miss Porter; “the last forty-eight hours must become a blank; you are to know nothing, except that on the second of this month my sister gave birth to a beautiful little girl, and that both mother and child are doing well. I am sure I can trust you,” concluded the woman, looking the girl squarely in the eyes.

“Yes, marm,” was the meek response, and Miss Porter knew that torture would never elicit the wilful betrayal of her secret after that promise was given.

“That is right,” she said briskly, the stern lines of her face relaxing again; “and now you may take the baby while I prepare some milk for her.”

The next day but one there appeared in the Boston Transcript the following paragraph:

“X. Y. Z.—The golden key has unlocked a responsive heart.”

Three weeks later a fair, sweet woman might have been seen driving through the street of F—— in an elegant carriage, which, with coachman and footman, had been ordered from New York, while by her side there sat a buxom, good-natured nurse, with a thriving baby on her lap.

“What a lovely child!” was the tribute of every one who saw the dainty, blue-eyed little girl, who now bore the name of Allison Porter Brewster, and then wondered to see the grave, yearning look that involuntarily came into the young mother’s eyes, even while her lips smiled at the praise bestowed upon her darling.

Meantime, messages of love and gratitude, together with costly gifts, had come across the ocean from the happy father, who was all impatience to return to his treasures.

Another month passed, and the Brewsters were once more settled in their elegant city home, where each succeeding week only served to develop the charms of the little heiress and to endear her to the hearts of her parents.

Early the following spring Miss Nancy Porter’s faithful Sarah was stricken with fever, which proved to be a long and tedious illness, during which she raved continually about stolen children and some dreadful secret which oppressed her.

Miss Porter was unremitting in her care of the trusty girl; she allowed no one to share her care of her, and when she died, in spite of the best of nursing and medical attendance, the woman shed sincere, regretful tears over her.

“I suppose it had to be,” she said sorrowfully, on her return to her lonely home after the burial. “Sarah was a good girl, and I’m sorry to lose her; but”—with suddenly whitening lips—“there’s one less in the world who knows that secret.”

The number was again reduced when, a few months later, Nancy Porter herself was laid to rest in the “Porter lot,” and the wife of Adam Brewster was left to bear her burden alone.

That it was an insupportable burden was revealed some three years afterward, when, following a gradual decline, she laid it down, after having written out a full confession of the deception of which she had been guilty, and humbly begged her husband’s pardon for having yielded to a temptation that had proved stronger than her principles.

This revelation Adam Brewster did not find until after she had been in her grave many weeks, when he finally gathered courage to examine a box which she had told him, with almost her last breath, contained something of great importance.

It came upon him with the force of a thunderbolt—he was almost paralyzed with grief and dismay when he read his wife’s letter, and found the proof of its contents in the articles of infant’s clothing which she had preserved—in the note which she had pinned upon the dress of the abandoned child, and the golden key, which was her only heritage.

It was a terrible blow! His darling—his idol, in whom all his fondest hopes were centered—not his own child! It could not be possible, for no father could so worship the offspring of another.

The struggle between love, grief, disappointment, and indignation was long and bitter; but love finally triumphed over all.

“No one need ever know it,” he told himself, but with a twinge of keenest pain in view of his own knowledge. “She is mine—I claim her as my very own by the love I bear her; no one shall ever suspect the truth—she shall never learn it, and thus I shall never be in danger of losing her. I will destroy every evidence of the fact, and then the secret will be buried in my own heart. And, ah, me! Forgive my dear lost wife for her deception I must, in view of that other secret which I have withheld from her.”

The man fully intended to destroy all evidence that Allison Porter was not his own child, but, thinking that he might wish to examine the contents of the box more carefully in a few days—after he had recovered somewhat from the shock he had received—he put it away, with some jewels belonging to his wife, in a secret compartment in the vault in his bank, where, amid the press of business and of many cares, it was forgotten; or, if not forgotten, neglected for many years.

CHAPTER I.SIXTEEN YEARS AFTER.

“Papa! Papa! Where is my father?”

The speaker was a charming young girl, of about sixteen years, who came one morning tripping into the cool, private office of Adam Brewster.

Without, the day was hot and sultry, but Miss Allison Brewster might have just emerged from some shady sylvan retreat, to judge from her fresh, dainty appearance as she paused in an exquisite pose, upon the threshold of the doorway, which made her seem, for the moment, a beautiful picture painted by a master hand.

She was clad in a fine, crisp lawn, sprigged with forget-me-nots, and trimmed with delicate lace and fetching knots of blue ribbon, all of which was just suited to her flawless pink-and-white complexion, her sapphire eyes, and the gleaming gold of her abundant hair. Her pretty head was crowned with a broad-brimmed hat of white chip, whereon nodded and swayed, with every graceful movement of the little lady, three costly white ostrich-plumes, which were fastened in place by the same number of pale, pink roses and a broad band of rich satin ribbon.

But Adam Brewster was not in. The only occupant of the place was the office boy—Gerald Winchester—who was seated behind a tall desk, engaged in copying some letters for his employer.

He was, perhaps, nineteen years of age, and rather boyish in appearance, but with a face “to swear by,” with its clear, steadfast, honest eyes, its clean-cut features, its frank, genial smile, and yet possessing certain lines and characteristics which bespoke high moral principles and great strength of purpose.

He sprang to his feet at the sound of that eager voice calling “papa,” a quick flush leaping into his cheeks, an intense, peculiar light into his eyes, and, approaching the young girl, with a courteous bow, observed in a quiet tone of respect:

“Mr. Brewster went out a few moments ago. Can I do anything for you, Al—Miss Brewster?”

A look of astonishment swept over the fair maiden’s face, and for an instant she made no reply. Then her ruby lips parted and a peal of silvery laughter rang through the room, while her vivacious face dimpled and gleamed with irrepressible merriment.

“‘Miss Brewster!’” she repeated, with a saucy toss of her head, that set every spotless plume upon her hat nodding a playful reproof at her companion for his unprecedented formality; for they had known each other for years, and, hitherto, had always addressed each other by their Christian names. “Why, Gerald; how formal! Since when have you become so strictly ceremonious?”

“Since Mr. Brewster announced a day or two ago, when some one spoke of you by your given name, that hereafter you were to be addressed as Miss Brewster,” the young man responded, flushing slightly, although a smile of sympathetic amusement curled his own expressive lips.

“Did papa say that?” questioned Allison, with a shrug of her graceful shoulders. “What nonsense! Why, I have been running in and out of the bank ever since I was able to walk, and it seems absurd putting on such airs, when everybody knows me so well.”

“Still, you are a young lady now, and it does seem a trifle familiar to address you as if you were only a child,” Gerald thoughtfully observed.

Allison stood considering the matter for a moment; then she gravely remarked:

“I say, Gerald, I shall not mind the change very much from the others; but,” with an independent toss of her pretty head, “I won’t be ‘Miss Brewster’ to you.”

Gerald shot a quick, bright glance at the speaker.

“Thank you—I am sure I appreciate this mark of your esteem,” he said, in tones that were a trifle tremulous, “but,” a roguish twinkle in his fine, dark eyes, “how about obeying orders from one’s chief?”

“Well, perhaps you’ll have to do as papa wishes, when you are here with the other clerks; but, Gerald”—appealingly, yet half-defiantly—“when—when we are by ourselves, I—just won’t stand it; it will spoil all our nice times, and make us too stiff and prim for anything. Do you want me to call you Mr. Winchester?”

“I am sure I do not,” he answered, laughing at her injured air.

“Well, but I shall—if you go to playing at formality with me”—this with a charming little pout as she threw herself into a chair, seized a fan from the desk near her, and began to sway it back and forth with piquant grace, while her companion watched her with admiring interest.

“I am sorry papa is out,” she resumed, after a minute, and apparently regarding the other topic as settled, “for I want some money. I suppose I can have everything charged, but I do so enjoy having a lot of nice, fresh, crisp bills in my own hands to pay for what I buy. Will he be in soon, do you think?”

“I am sure I cannot tell,” replied the young man, glancing at the clock, then back, with an expression of yearning tenderness, to the graceful figure in the chair opposite him.

His color came and went, and his heart was beating heavily with an emotion which he was striving to conceal, for he feared that it would never do to betray to his proud employer’s daughter that he had dared to love her with all the strength of his intensely strong nature.

At least, he would not presume to betray his secret for a long while yet; perhaps, if fortune’s wheel should some time turn in his favor, he might dare to confess his affection for the lovely heiress, provided she remained the sweet and unaffected girl she had always hitherto been.

Gerald Winchester was no ordinary young man.

Confided to the care of an aunt, Miss Honor Winchester—almost from the hour of his birth, shortly after which his mother had died—he had been reared in very limited circumstances, although Miss Winchester was a well-educated and cultivated woman, and had given him careful training, both morally and intellectually.

She had a small annuity, which, as the boy grew older, she found insufficient for their mutual needs, and, desirous of doing her utmost for her charge, she resolved to leave the small town in Rhode Island, which for many years had been her home, and go to New York, where she hoped to get something to do to increase her slender income.

The move was made, and Miss Winchester, being an attractive, sensible woman, found plenty of work as seamstress in wealthy families; thus she was enabled to send Gerald to school until he was fourteen years of age, and had entered the second year of the high-school course.

But, one morning, the lad had found his best, and almost only friend, lying cold and still in her bed. She had died of heart-disease during the night, and thus he was left alone and destitute in the world, for the woman’s annuity ceased with her life.

The boy broke up their home, where they had been so quietly happy and comfortable for several years, selling off all their furniture, with the exception of an old-fashioned cricket, which his aunt had, upon one or two occasions, charged him never to part with, since it was a precious heirloom, having been brought from England during the reign of Queen Elizabeth by a remote ancestor.

It was a queer-looking, rather clumsy affair, of solid mahogany, having claw feet tipped with brass, its surface upholstered with some bright, silk patchwork, which Miss Winchester had made to replace a former defaced covering.

Gerald had almost a mind to let the thing go with the other household goods, in spite of his aunt’s wish, for he felt that it would never be anything but a burden to him; but he finally stowed it away in the bottom of a trunk, which contained all he possessed in the world, and removing to a small, cheap room, started forth to seek a situation where he could earn his own living.

At first he was cash-boy in one of the large stores of the city; later he was office boy for an eminent physician, and finally drifted into Adam Brewster’s banking-house, where he had remained until now, working slowly and steadily upward, gaining his employer’s confidence and favor, until he had proved himself so capable, trustworthy, and faithful that the man regarded him almost in the light of a confidential clerk.

From time to time the banker, pitying his homeless and friendless condition, had invited him to his own home, where he had spent many a delightful hour with Allison, who, from the first, had conceived a strong friendship for the handsome, manly fellow.

For a long time Mr. Brewster did not once think that any serious result would be likely to follow this “boy-and-girl acquaintance.” Allison, his idolized daughter, was happy to have Gerald come to tea; to drive with her in the park on Saturday afternoons or holidays; to have him to dinner with them now and then on Sundays, and he was ever indulgent to her lightest wish.

But of late—during the last five or six months—he had suddenly awakened to the fear that there might be danger ahead if these relations were continued.

He had become very fond of Gerald—he knew him to be a noble, whole-hearted, high-principled fellow; but he was not to be considered, for a moment, as a possible son-in-law. No struggling, plodding clerk who had his fortune to make by his own unaided efforts would be a suitable mate for the banker’s heiress, whose million, or more, in prospect, must be matched by at least an equal amount and a position as enviable and secure as her own.

So, during the last half-year, Gerald had received no invitations to the banker’s princely home—there was always some excuse of extra office work or special and important errands whenever Allison proposed his coming, and thus she saw him only when, occasionally, she slipped into the bank upon some pretense. This was the first time for months that they had been alone in each other’s presence, and Allison, making the most of her opportunity, gave herself up to the pleasure of the moment, and chatted, girllike, of anything and everything that came into her pretty head.

Gerald, also, thawing out beneath her sunny influence, dropped the formality which he had assumed upon her entrance, and, during the half-hour that followed, feasted his heart upon her beauty and the charm of her companionship.

Into this little banquet of love there suddenly intruded a man of perhaps thirty-five years—a tall, gaunt figure, with a slight stoop in his shoulders, but faultlessly attired. His face was thin, and absolutely colorless, save for the faint tinge of red in his lips and the cold blue of his eyes, which contrasted strangely with the intense black of his hair and mustache.

His eyes lighted with sudden fire as they fell upon the dainty figure and bright beauty of Allison Brewster.

“Ah, good morning, Miss Allison,” he remarked, in bland, oily tones, his thin lips relaxing into a smile that revealed a ghastly row of dead-white teeth beneath the black mustache. “This is an unexpected pleasure. I do not need to inquire if you are well—your blooming appearance speaks for itself.”

“Yes, thank you, I am well,” the girl quietly replied, but without bestowing a second glance upon him.

The man then turned to Gerald, a vicious smile just curling the corners of his mouth.

“Ahem! Winchester, here is a message that must go immediately to the Second National Bank.”

“Is it imperative?” Gerald questioned.

“Yes; it must go at once.”

“I am sorry, Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Brewster is out, and, as you know, I am not allowed to leave the office during his absence,” the young man replied.

Mr. Hubbard frowned, and then his gaze wandered again to Allison, with an eager look.

“Yes, I know that is the rule,” he said, “but you will have to break it for once. The bank closes at twelve to-day, being Saturday, and the message must be delivered before that. Miss Brewster will doubtless excuse you,” he added, with the suspicion of a sneer, “and I will entertain her during your absence, or until Mr. Brewster returns.”

Gerald glanced at the clock, and a troubled expression flitted over his face, but after another moment of thought, he said quietly but firmly:

“I would like to oblige you, Mr. Hubbard, but Mr. Brewster’s orders to me are imperative. I can, under no circumstances, leave the office during his absence.”

“But I tell you this is an unusual case,” said the man impatiently; “there is no messenger in just now—we are very busy to-day, and you will have to go.”

“It is impossible—I cannot leave my post without orders direct from Mr. Brewster,” Gerald responded, an unmistakable note of determination in his tones; “you will have to ask one of the clerks in the other room to take the message.”

John Hubbard turned sharply upon his heel, muttering something under his breath, and abruptly left the room.

Allison suddenly threw down her fan and shrugged her shapely shoulders.

“Ugh!” she said, shivering slightly. “I don’t need that any more—I always get a chill whenever that man comes near me.”

Gerald smiled, yet he looked somewhat disconcerted, for, of late, he had been conscious of a growing barrier between himself and this strangely clever man, who was an expert accountant, a talented lawyer, a director of the bank, and one at whose touch everything seemed to turn into gold.

“But Mr. Hubbard is very valuable to Mr. Brewster and the bank,” he said, in reply to Allison’s remark; “he inspects all accounts, manages all law business, and has recently been made one of the directors of the bank.”

“Is that so?” queried the young girl, with some surprise.

“Yes; he owns quite a good deal of stock.”

But Allison Brewster was not much interested to know who owned stock in the bank; business had little attraction for her beyond its results, which, of course, were a necessary factor in her life, while John Hubbard and his affairs were of no moment whatever to her.

“Gerald!” she exclaimed, after a moment, and abruptly changing the subject, “I almost forgot a part of my errand here. Papa is going to let me give a lawn-party before we go to Newport—and I am going to send out my invitations for two weeks from to-day—I set it for Saturday because you are at liberty so much earlier on that day. Will you come?”

Gerald’s eyes glowed, and the color mounted to his temples at this evidence of her thought for him. His voice thrilled with repressed emotion as he replied:

“That was certainly very kind of you, Al—Miss——”

“Take care, Gerald!” suddenly interposed the fair girl, as she raised a finger menacingly at him. “I will not be ‘missed’ by you—at least”—with a gleam of roguishness in her dancing eyes—“until I am gone for the summer, and then you may miss me as much as you like. See?”

And, detaching one of the three beautiful pink rosebuds from her corsage, she playfully tossed it at him, and with such unerring aim that it brushed his cheek with its fragrant petals, and then lodged upon his shoulder. Gerald captured it with a hand that tingled in every nerve.

“Yes, Allison, I see,” he said, smiling into the piquant face. “Thanks for this souvenir—I never saw anything more lovely.”

But he was not looking at the rose as he spoke—he was gazing straight into the blue eyes of beautiful Allison Brewster.

“Now will you promise to come to my party?” she asked, rising to go.

“Yes, if——”

“If!” she repeated sharply, a quick flush mantling her face.

“If there is no extra work to be done and I can get off,” he explained.

“Of course you can get off on Saturday afternoon,” said the girl impatiently; then added appealingly: “Gerald, you must come—it will just spoil the whole thing for me if you do not. Now, good-by—tell papa I could not wait any longer. I have an appointment with my dressmaker at one, and I have a lot of shopping to do before that.”

And nodding a smiling adieu to Gerald, she tripped away, while the young man turned to a window and watched her out of sight, a tremulous smile upon his lips, a tender gleam in his handsome brown eyes.