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 fainted and was sick for some time after. She really loved, and it was a great blow to her. She married old Goldthwaite, the millionaire.'

The story was coming just right. It sounded exactly like Miss Bigley. She wriggled her toes guiltily and found the small hole in her left stocking. Dear, dear, if Anthony knew she had deliberately put on a tattered hose, he would...no, he wouldn't. He'd hardly care. There couldn't be girls that looked like Persian miniatures in Cincinnati; why probably there was hardly a 'lady' in that frontier town. But Anthony had obviously thought the Scollay girls fascinating, they with their brisk, gold hair and sweet-pea faces, but in Cincinnati....Ah, the Park Street clock. Eleven. Miss Bigley wanted this story by noon. Well, here goes!

'As for Edward, this cold bath of his imagination cured his love. He avoided ladies' society and rapidly rose to eminence in his profession. It was six years after this when he met your cousin Mary. Her self-sacrificing care of her invalid mother, her warm heart and native sense interested him deeply; still, his former experience had made him distrustful. Accident decided him. Mary's former governess was living in very destitute circumstances in an obscure part of town. And one wet day she went to see her. The carriage not returning, she set out for home alone and met Edward. He offered his services and at a muddy crossing her light slipper was left in the mud. He stooped to fit it on; there was no one in sight and she timidly advanced a dainty foot with the cleanest of