"But I can't bear to have them all talk—and notice," choked Mellicent. "And we were together such a lot before; and now—I tell you I CAN'T go to that dance to-morrow night!"

"And you shan't, if you don't want to," Mr. Smith assured her. "Right here and now I invite you and your Aunt Maggie to drive with me to- morrow to Hubbardville. There are some records there that I want to look up. We'll get dinner at the hotel. It will take all day, and we shan't be home till late in the evening. You'll go?"

"Oh, Mr. Smith, you—you DEAR! Of course we'll go! I'll go straight now and telephone to somebody—everybody—that I shan't be there; that I'm going to be OUT OF TOWN!" She sprang joyously to her feet—but Miss Maggie held out a restraining hand.

"Just a minute, dear. You don't care—you SAID you didn't care—that Carl Pennock doesn't come to see you any more?"

"Indeed I don't!"

"Then you wouldn't want others to think you did, would you?"

"Of course not!" The red dyed Mellicent's forehead.

"You have said that you'd go to this party, haven't you? That is, you accepted the invitation, didn't you, and people know that you did, don't they?"

"Why, yes, of course! But that was before—Mrs. Pennock said what she did."

"Of course. But—just what do you think these people are going to say to-morrow night, when you aren't there?"

"Why, that I—I—" The color drained from her face and left it white. "They wouldn't EXPECT me to go after that—insult."

"Then they'll understand that you—CARE, won't they?"

"Why, I—I—They—I CAN'T—" She turned sharply and walked to the window. For a long minute she stood, her back toward the two watching her. Then, with equal abruptness, she turned and came back. Her cheeks were very pink now, her eyes very bright. She carried her head with a proud little lift.

"I think, Mr. Smith, that I won't go with you to-morrow, after all," she said steadily. "I've decided to go—to that dance."

The next moment the door shut crisply behind her.

Chapter VIII - A Santa Claus Held Up

*

It was about five months after the multi-millionaire, Mr. Stanley G. Fulton, had started for South America, that Edward D. Norton, Esq., received the following letter:—

DEAR NED:—I'm glad there's only one more month to wait. I feel like Santa Claus with a box of toys, held up by a snowdrift, and I just can't wait to see the children dance—when they get them.

And let me say right here and now how glad I am that I did this thing. Oh, yes, I'll admit I still feel like the small boy at the keyhole, at times, perhaps; but I'll forget that—when the children begin to dance.