that night when the poor backwoodsman had learned his first bitter lesson in civilization at the opera.
"That was Steven Lawrence himself—don't you remember seeing him in our box at Covent Garden before he was engaged to Dot? He has such singular acquaintance that I never know whether I ought to speak to him or not. If it had not been for the—person who was painting, I would have liked to take one last look at the village sisters before bidding them good-by."
And she turned—met Steven's eyes looking after her with the look she knew so well—and felt, with sudden repentant revulsion, that all his misdeeds were condoned on the spot! Must not any man of sober sense choose to spend his time thus, rather than amid the parade and glitter, the dressing and driving of the Champs Elysées? Might not Steven Lawrence find greater profit in Mademoiselle Barry's society than in that of Grizelda Long and Clarendon Whyte, yet be guiltless of infidelity to Dora? If she, Katharine, held out her hand, could she not at this moment save him from the Barrys—from every dangerous influence in the world? And was it not a duty (quick as thought, itself, came this impulse, now that she had seen the enemy face to face) that she should at least make an effort toward his salvation? Pride, doubtless, forbade that she should stoop so far; but what mattered pride. This Moloch before whom she had already sacrificed so much—this Moloch, but for whose senseless worship she might now, instead of looking forward to a starved, a barren future, be leading the wholesome country life for which nature had fitted her? Her hands full of work, her heart of love—finding pleasure, not in Parisian toilettes, but in the seed-time and the harvest; the Summer's blossoming and the Autumn's fading; in all the commonest, sweetest joys of human life; and with the man who loved her, whose character, whatever it lacked of outward polish or fine breeding, suited hers so utterly, at her side!
She walked through the remainder of the Louvre and home to the Hotel Rivoli in silence, that must have offended any man less devoid of personal vanity than George Gordon. Then—the Squire still happy over his rheumatism—started to pay her daily visit to Dora. "I have been thinking all this time what you told me," she said, as Captain Gordon was leaving her at the door of the Lawrences' apartment—the mœnad having signified, after slight hesitation, that Madame might be visible for Mademoiselle. "So you must not wonder at my being such a stupid companion. If you see Lord Petres this evening say I wish very much to speak to him; also"—with a tremble of the lip this—"that I am well, and have been enjoying myself in Paris."
Early though it was, Mrs. Lawrence had already a visitor—Miss Grizelda Long. A mass of sky-blue silk, silver cord, and white
