A GUARDIAN ANGEL.

Peter had as glorious an afternoon as he had had a bad morning. First he danced a little. Then the two sat at the big desk in the deserted library and worked together over those very complex dispatches till they had them translated. Then they had to discuss their import. Finally they had to draft answers and translate them into cipher. All this with their heads very close together, and an utter forgetfulness on the part of a certain personage that snubbing rather than politics was her "plan of campaign." But Leonore began to feel that she was a political power herself, and so forgot her other schemes. When they had the answering dispatches fairly transcribed, she looked up at Peter and said:

"I think we've done that very well," in the most approving voice. "Do you think they'll do as we tell them?"

Peter looked down into that dearest of faces, gazing at him so frankly and with such interest, so very near his, and wondered what deed was n.o.ble or great enough to win a kiss from those lips. Several times that afternoon, it had seemed to him that he could not keep himself from leaning over and taking one. He even went so far now as to speculate on exactly what Leonore would do if he did. Fortunately his face was not given to expressing his thoughts. Leonore never dreamed how narrow an escape she had. "If only she wouldn't be so friendly and confiding,"

groaned Peter, even while absolutely happy in her mood. "I can't do it, when she trusts me so."

"Well," said Leonore, "perhaps when you've done staring at me, you'll answer my question."

"I think they'll do as we tell them," smiled Peter. "But we'll get word to-morrow about Dutchess and Steuben. Then we shall know better how the land lies, and can talk plainer."

"Will there be more ciphers, to-morrow?"

"Yes." To himself Peter said, "I must write Green and the rest to telegraph me every day."

"Now we'll have a cup of tea," said Leonore. "I like politics."

"Then you would like Albany," said Peter, putting a chair for her by the little tea-table.

"I wouldn't live in Albany for the whole world," said Leonore, resuming her old self with horrible rapidity. But just then she burnt her finger with the match with which she was lighting the lamp, and her cruelty vanished in a wail. "Oh!" she cried. "How it hurts."

"Let me see," said Peter sympathetically.

The little hand was held up. "It does hurt," said Leonore, who saw that there was a painful absence of all signs of injury, and feared Peter would laugh at such a burn after those he had suffered.

But Peter treated it very seriously. "I'm sure it does," he said, taking possession of the hand. "And I know how it hurts." He leaned over and kissed the little thumb. Then he didn't care a sc.r.a.p whether Leonore liked Albany or not.

"I won't snub you this time," said Leonore to herself, "because you didn't laugh at me for it."

Peter's evening was not so happy. Leonore told him as they rose from dinner that she was going to a dance. "We have permission to take you.

Do you care to go?"

"Yes. If you'll give me some dances."

"I've told you once that I'll only give you the ones not taken by better dancers. If you choose to stay round I'll take you for those."

"Do you ever have a dance over?" asked Peter, marvelling at such a possibility.

"I've only been to one dance. I didn't have at that."

"Well," said Peter, growling a little, "I'll go."

"Oh," said Leonore, calmly, "don't put yourself out on my account."

"I'm not," growled Peter. "I'm doing it to please myself." Then he laughed, so Leonore laughed too.

After a game of billiards they all went to the dance. As they entered the hall, Peter heard his name called in a peculiar voice behind. He turned and saw Dorothy.

Dorothy merely said, "Peter!" again. But Peter understood that explanations were in order. He made no attempt to dodge.

"Dorothy," he said softly, giving a glance at Leonore, to see that she was out of hearing, "when you spent that summer with Miss De Voe, did Ray come down every week?"

"Yes."

"Would he have come if you had been travelling out west?"

"Oh, Peter," cried Dorothy, below her breath, "I'm so glad it's come at last!"

We hope our readers can grasp the continuity of Dorothy's mental processes, for her verbal ones were rather inconsequent.

"She's lovely," continued the verbal process. "And I'm sure I can help you."

"I need it," groaned Peter. "She doesn't care in the least for me, and I can't get her to. And she says she isn't going to marry for--"

"Nonsense!" interrupted Dorothy, contemptuously, and sailed into the ladies' dressing-room.

Peter gazed after her. "I wonder what's nonsense?" he thought.

Dorothy set about her self-imposed task with all the ardor for matchmaking, possessed by a perfectly happy married woman. But Dorothy evidently intended that Leonore should not marry Peter, if one can judge from the tenor of her remarks to Leonore in the dressing-room. Peter liked Dorothy, and would probably not have believed her capable of treachery, but it is left to masculine mind to draw any other inference from the dialogue which took place between the two, as they prinked before a cheval gla.s.s.

"I'm so glad to have Peter here for this particular evening," said Dorothy.

"Why?" asked Leonore, calmly, in the most uninterested of tones.

"Because Miss Biddle is to be here. For two years I've been trying to bring those two together, so that they might make a match of it. They are made for each other."

Leonore tucked a rebellious curl in behind the drawn-back lock. Then she said, "What a pretty pin you have."

"Isn't it? Ray gave it to me," said Dorothy, giving Leonore all the line she wanted.

"I've never met Miss Biddle," said Leonore.

"She's a great beauty, and rich. And then she has that nice Philadelphia manner. Peter can't abide the young-girl manner. He hates giggling and talking girls. It's funny too, because, though he doesn't dance or talk, they like him. But Miss Biddle is an older girl, and can talk on subjects which please him. She is very much interested in politics and philanthropy."

"I thought," said Leonore, fluffing the lace on her gown, "that Peter never talked politics."

"He doesn't," said Dorothy. "But she has studied political economy. He's willing to talk abstract subjects. She's just the girl for a statesman's wife. Beauty, tact, very clever, and yet very discreet. I'm doubly glad they'll meet here, for she has given up dancing, so she can entertain Peter, who would otherwise have a dull time of it."

"If she wants to," said Leonore.

"Oh," said Dorothy, "I'm not a bit afraid about that. Peter's the kind of man with whom every woman's ready to fall in love. Why, my dear, he's had chance after chance, if he had only cared to try. But, of course, he doesn't care for such women as you and me, who can't enter into his thoughts or sympathize with his ambitions. To him we are nothing but dancing, dressing, prattling flutter-birds." Then Dorothy put her head on one side, and seemed far more interested in the effect of her own frock than in Peter's fate.

"He talks politics to me," Leonore could not help saying. Leonore did not like Dorothy's last speech.

"Oh, Peter's such a gentleman that he always talks seriously even to us; but it's only his politeness. I've seen him talk to girls like you, and he is delightfully courteous, and one would think he liked it. But, from little things Ray has told me, I know he looks down on society girls."

"Are you ready, Leonore?" inquired Mrs. D'Alloi.