The Senator's Favorite

Society raved over the girl, to whose wondrous charms was added the sensation of last March, when, after her kidnaping at the Inauguration Ball, she had been so romantically rescued by Lord Chester. Her admirers were legion. She had a social triumph so splendid that it might have turned any young girl's head.

But Precious did not enjoy it as she would have done last winter, when all her artless heart had been set on long dresses and social pleasures.

The beautiful girl was strangely changed from six months ago.

Her pretty childishness had dropped from her like a garment, and in its place was a new, sweet dignity almost womanly. Much of her willfulness had left her, and instead of opposing Ethel as she had done in the old days Precious yielded passively to her sister's wishes, often saying, with a pensive shade on her brow:

"We must let Ethel have her own way about everything, because we are going to lose her so soon."

Ethel was radiant in those days. She did not envy her sister's social triumphs, she rejoiced in her success, and was always watching closely to see if any lover ever touched the girl's heart.

And surely, she thought, there were so many to choose from that Precious must yield her heart to one.

In the list of conquests were numbered a millionaire senator, middle-aged but handsome; a member of the French Legation, a German baron with his breast covered with jeweled orders of honor, two Southern colonels, a noted Northern general, and several score of "gilded" youths. No girl in her senses could reject all these brilliant opportunities.

But Precious had the same cheerful smile, the same kindly word for all, and if twitted in the domestic circle about her adorers she always cried out that she never intended to marry any one. She loved papa and mamma so well that she would never go away and leave them. Earle and Ethel would marry, of course—but as for her, no indeed, never!

And then she would nestle in her father's clasp, and stroke his dark whiskers with her dimpled white hands, and smile up at him with those dazzling dark-blue eyes in fondest affection, while he would answer that he wanted her to stay with him always, always, that it would break his heart if she ever married and went away.

"You needn't be afraid, papa, for I will always love you best," she laughed, but Ethel heard these promises with secret pain. They made her feel sure that Precious still loved Lord Chester with a hopeless passion that would make her go unwedded to her grave.

So the days fled fast, and very soon Lord Chester would arrive to bear away his dark-eyed bride. They would not await the conclusion of the lawsuit that still dragged wearily through the English courts. Ethel was anxious to prove the disinterestedness of her love. And in any case she would not be poor. Her father had promised her a magnificent dowry.

The trousseau had arrived from Paris, and was all that a woman's heart could crave. Ethel thrilled with delight over the beautiful creations, fancying how fair they would make her appear in Arthur's eyes. Ah, surely, surely, she would win back his truant heart that for a little while had strayed from its allegiance. And Precious was so young, so much admired, she would soon forget, and console herself with another lover.

These thoughts ran through her mind as she stood alone in her dressing-room, admiring the bridal veil as it lay upon a table for inspection.

"She is so young she will soon forget," she repeated again, and just then some one entered the room and stood by her side.

"Oh, Miss Ethel, how do you do? Norah said I might come right up and see you. She knew you wouldn't mind."

It was Hetty Wilkins, the deposed maid; but the girl was a mere wreck of her former blooming self, her cheeks all wan, her eyes heavy as if with unshed tears, her clothing sloven.

"Oh, Hetty, what have you been doing to yourself? You look ill, my poor girl."

"Oh, Miss Ethel, I am ill—heart-sick, too. Oh, please forgive me for coming, but you said if I ever needed help—and so I came."

"And quite right, Hetty," cried Ethel, dragging out her purse. She selected a ten-dollar gold piece, and held it out, saying generously:

"I have more if that is not enough, Hetty."

Hetty looked at the gold piece, but she did not offer to take it, and when Ethel doubled it with another piece she shook her head and whimpered reproachfully:

"It is too little; you must pay me more than that for keeping your dangerous secret! You were with your sister, miss, at the fortune-teller's when the fire broke out in the house. How was it you escaped and left her there? Why have you and she always kept the secret of your presence there—tell me that?"

The Parthian shaft told on Ethel. She recoiled with a gasp of terror from her accuser, and before she could speak Hetty followed up the advantage by adding:

"I think you'll own that a secret like that is worth more than a twenty-dollar gold piece, Miss Ethel, won't you? And I'm poor, and so is my young man. We want money to get married and start in life. A thousand dollars ain't much to you, with such a rich pa, but it'll be a mint of money to me."

"A thousand dollars!" gasped Ethel, then she whispered:

"Hetty, who has been telling you these falsehoods about me?"

"'Tain't false, Miss Ethel, it's God's own truth, no matter how I found it out. And unless you want me to out with it all to your pa and ma you must fork over a thousand dollars by to-morrow. I know you can do it. Mr. Winans will give you the money for your wedding fixings if you say the word. And I will come back to-morrow afternoon and get it."

The girl paused and looked at Ethel with a pleading air strangely at variance with her defiant tone, and in truth there was something of abject shame in her eyes as she waited cringingly for Ethel's answer.

"What if I refuse?" at length asked the young girl proudly.

"Oh, Miss Ethel, please don't," and Hetty's voice was almost a sob. "I—I—am almost ashamed of myself, but look, how poor I am, and these shabby clothes, too; I've not been in service since I left you, and I'm out of money, and I've gone hungry many a time. Oh, please, please, give me a thousand dollars," and Hetty suddenly fell on her knees and plucked piteously at Ethel's gown, adding: "It looks ungrateful in me I know, but I love you, and I never would have come only they made me—No, no, I don't mean that—my poor head is dazed. It was the dreadful poverty made me come."

"A hundred dollars would relieve your poverty, Hetty," the young girl said, coldly and suspiciously.

"Oh, no, Miss Ethel, not a cent less than one thousand. It's the price of your safety. Only give me that, and no one shall bother you afterward. You needn't fear the secret any more after that price is paid."

"But, Hetty, there's nothing to fear in that secret," cried Ethel, frantically explaining how the rope had broken. "I was half crazed with grief at first, and after my sister was saved we agreed between us that nothing need be said. I was ashamed of having gone to the old fortune-teller," she said, remembering with a keen pang the old hag's prediction: "You will sin and you will suffer."

But Hetty remained sullenly unconvinced, and answered boldly:

"You were certainly afraid of something, Miss Ethel, or you would not be keeping it so dark. And, anyway, you wouldn't like to be exposed after all these months, would you?"

"No, no," admitted Ethel miserably, and in the end she agreed to pay the price demanded for the keeping of her secret.

CHAPTER XXX.

"THE FLOWER OF FRIENDSHIP CAN ONLY BLOOM IN IMPERISHABLE BEAUTY IN THE CONGENIAL SOIL OF A NOBLE NATURE."

"Jar one chord, the harp is silent; move one stone, the arch is shattered;
One small clarion cry of sorrow bids an armed host awake;
One dark cloud can hide the sunlight; loose one string, the pearls are scattered;
Think one thought, a soul may perish; speak one word, a heart may break!"—Adelaide Proctor.

It seemed strange and embarrassing that when Lord Chester arrived in the last week of November he should find no one at home but Precious.

They knew that he had sailed for America, but his steamer had made such rapid time that he arrived in Washington before they knew that he had landed.

Ethel had gone with her mother on a little shopping tour that morning, and Precious remained at home to rest from the fatigue of a ball she had attended the previous evening.

She had risen late and breakfasted in her own room. Then she came down to the drawing-room in a simple morning dress of soft pale blue with silver embroidery, and cords of blue and silver holding in the full loose folds at the waist. Her golden locks, half-loose, half-curled, fell carelessly about her shoulders, framing the exquisite face, with its deep-blue eyes and pink, dimpled cheeks.

She was all alone but for Kay, who lay curled up lazily at her feet on a splendid fur rug, now and then snapping crossly at the tiger-head with open jaws that seemed threatening his destruction.

She was not thinking of visitors that morning, and lay back at ease in a great armchair with her arms over her head in a pretty, careless pose, when suddenly, without warning, the portieres at the door were swept aside by a white hand, and a man entered the room. His step made no sound on the thick carpet, but perhaps her instinct told her the truth, for she turned her head, and their eyes met.

"Precious!"

"Lord Chester!"