said Valancy, laughing. She gathered a handful of the blossoms — they would look well on the supper-table of the verandah at Mistawis — and went, still laughing, up the walk, conscious that Olive was standing on the steps, Olive, goddess-like in loveliness, looking down with a slight frown on her forehead. Olive, beautiful, insolent. Her full form voluptuous in its swathings of rose silk and lace. Her golden-brown hair curling richly under her big, white-frilled hat. Her colour ripe and melting.

“Beautiful,” thought Valancy coolly, “but” — as if she suddenly saw her cousin through new eyes — ”without the slightest touch of distinction.”

So Valancy had come home, thank goodness, thought Olive. But Valancy was not looking like a