A Colony of Girls

by Kate Livingston Willard

Helen sat down before the open piano, and Nathalie picked up her mandolin from the music stand and began to tune it. When she had finished she spoke in a low tone to her sister:

"Let's play Guy's old favorite, will you, dear?"

Helen complied, but not before she had cast a half-guilty glance across the room to where Miss Stuart was gracefully reclining in a huge armchair, to satisfy herself that the mention of her lover's name had escaped her friend's notice. The piano took up the accompanying strains of a soft andante, the mandolin carrying the air with its tremulous and strangely human wail.

Jean leaned her face on her hand as she nestled down among the cushions on the divan. Her good angel was whispering to her in the sweet harmony of the music, and gentler thoughts of her lover were prevailing against the cruel doubts of him which her jealousy had taught her. After all, had not Miss Stuart been chiefly at fault, and had he not honestly striven to make amends?

"It is entirely the result of my morbid dislike of that girl," she said to herself; and when the officers came out from the dining room, she gave Farr a bright glance of welcome, and when he had joined her, she talked to him until her persistent gentleness had completely melted away the barrier of reserve which had crept between them. Once or twice it was on the tip of her tongue to say, "Why did you never tell me that you knew Miss Stuart?" but the words, held back by a foolish sentiment of pride, never passed her lips.

Meanwhile Farr, although touched by the sweet friendliness, was more disheartened than he quite cared to own. He had allowed his hope to grow too quickly, founded on that one honest glance from Jean's eyes, a glance so full of love and trust that he had felt he could not be deceived. Scarcely had he told himself that his happiness was assured when Jean's coldness had denied the love which her eyes had bespoken. No suspicion of the truth had crossed his mind, and as Jean had never been given to moods, he was left to the discouraging conclusion that he had been too hasty and that she was resenting it. She was willing now to treat him with her old-time cordial frankness, for having once clearly defined their relative positions, she was too courteous to continue a course of treatment which she must have seen had greatly pained him. Never until he had reached this unhappy decision had he realized how strong and deep-rooted was his love for Jean. As his eyes rested on her, a longing seized him to take her in his arms, and to bring back to her face that look which had given him such promise of joy.

His unexpected meeting with Miss Stuart had brought back to his memory the foolish impetuosity, the passionate unrest of his boyish love for her, and he thanked God for the wholesome lesson he had learned, and prayed earnestly for the love of this young girl, whose truth and sincerity stirred all the dormant possibilities of his higher nature. With these thoughts in his mind his eyes wandered across the room to where Lillian Stuart sat talking with Dudley. He acknowledged the force and charm of her rare exotic beauty, but it moved him not at all. Her effective pose was studied and artificial. Her face, so perfect in contour, was lacking in any suggestion of tender womanliness, and her glorious eyes, now raised to Dudley's, although full of the power of expression, revealed no depth of soul.

It was refreshing to him to turn once more to Jean, to meet the dear laughter-loving eyes, to watch the fleeting changes of expression on her bonny face, to mark the unconscious grace of every movement of her lithe, slender figure. Yet, the secret of Jean's strong hold on his heart lay not in these superficial attractions, nor in her frank simplicity of manner, nor yet in her girlish freshness, which was her greatest claim to beauty, but in the knowledge he had gained of her true nature; a nature so honest, so unfailing in loyalty, so unselfish, so charitable, so responsive in its sympathies, that both respect and reverence were blended with his love for her. And yet he was not wholly blind to her faults. He knew that she was impatient and hot-tempered, and that, in anger, she was often sarcastic and cutting; but he also saw that she made a brave effort to hold herself in check, and that, however she might be worsted, she never ceased to struggle for the mastery. His meditations had carried him far adrift of the conversation, but although Jean had observed his abstraction, she did not resent it. She was living in a day-dream herself, a dream that was all the happier for that miserable hour at the dinner-table. She rose with a regretful sigh when Helen asked her to go up with a message to Aunt Helen. She looked up at Farr as he held back the portière for her to pass, and impulsively put out her hand to him.

"We are friends again, are we not?" she asked scarcely above her breath.

Farr gripped the little hand so tightly it almost hurt her.