"I have been very ill, have I not?" Ray inquired.

"Yes, but you are much better and steadily improving."

"How long have I been sick?"

"It is more than five weeks now since you were attacked."

Ray frowned at this information.

How must his father feel regarding his strange absence? What had become of that cunning thief and the diamonds? were questions which suggested themselves to him.

But he simply asked:

"When did you return to New York?"

"About a week ago," the physician replied. "I was very sorry to have to leave you as I did, but the summons to my wife was imperative, and of course my duty was by her side."

A sarcastic smile curled Ray's lips at this last remark.

"I am only surprised that you returned at all," he quietly responded.

"Why?" inquired the physician, with some astonishment.

"It is not always safe, you know," Ray answered, looking him straight in the eye, "for one who has aided and abetted a stupendous robbery to appear so soon upon the scene of his depredations."

Doctor Wesselhoff's face fell.

He had hoped that, when the young man should recover, all signs of his peculiar mania would disappear; but this did not seem much like it, and he began to fear the case might prove a very obstinate one.

"I think you must rest now," he remarked, evading the subject; "you have talked long enough this time."

"Perhaps I have, but I do not intend to rest until I have come to some definite understanding regarding my relations with you," Ray responded, resolutely.

"Well, then, what do you mean by a definite understanding?" the physician asked, thinking it might be as well to humor him a little.

"I want to know how far you are concerned in this plot to keep me a prisoner here? I want to know in what way you are connected with that woman who called herself Mrs. Vanderbeck, and who enticed me here with valuable diamonds, only to steal them from me? I believe I am in the power of a gang of thieves, and though I cannot reconcile it with what I had heard of you previously, that you must be associated in some way with them."

Ray had spoken rapidly, and with an air and tone of stern command, which puzzled while it impressed the doctor.

"You bring a very serious charge against me, my young friend," he gravely remarked, but without betraying the slightest resentment; "but perhaps if you will tell me your side of the story I shall understand you better, and then I will explain my authority for detaining you here."

Doctor Wesselhoff was strangely attracted toward his patient. He did not seem at all like an insane person, except upon that one subject, and he would not have regarded that as a mania if he had not been assured of it by Mrs. Walton. He began to think there might at least be some misunderstanding, and that it would be as well to let the young man exhaust the subject once for all; then he could judge the better regarding the treatment he needed.

"Well, then, to begin at the beginning," Ray resumed. "A woman, giving her name as Mrs. William Vanderbeck, called at my father's store on the day I came here, and asked to look at diamonds. You will remember, I told you my father is a diamond dealer. They were shown to her, and she selected several very expensive ornaments, which she said she wished to wear at a reception that evening. But she represented that she could not purchase them unless they were first submitted to her husband for examination and his sanction. He was an invalid; he could not come to the store, consequently the stones must be taken to him; was there not some reliable person who could be sent to her residence with them, when, if Mr. Vanderbeck was satisfied with the ornaments, a check for their price would be filled out and returned to my father. This seemed fair and reasonable, and I was commissioned to attend the lady and take charge of the diamonds. I put the package in my pocket, and my hand never left it until the coupe stopped before this house, when Mrs. Vanderbeck suddenly discovered that her dress had caught in the carriage door, and she could not rise. Of course I offered assistance in disengaging it; but in spite of our united efforts, the garment was torn during the operation. I suppose she robbed me at that moment, but am not quite sure, as I did not discover my loss until you—whom I supposed to be the lady's husband—entered the room, and I slipped my hand into my pocket for the diamonds, only to find that they were gone. You know the rest, and the treatment I received from yourself. Is it any wonder that I believed you an accomplice when I found myself in that padded chamber and losing all sense and reason beneath the influence of a powerful mesmerist?"

Doctor Wesselhoff had listened gravely throughout the young man's recital, and, though astonished and puzzled by what he heard, felt that he was relating a very connected story.

He was upon the point of replying to his questions, when he chanced to glance at his assistant, Doctor Huff, who had been in the room all the time, and saw that he was startlingly pale, and laboring under extreme agitation.

"Sir," cried the man, hoarsely, "can it be possible that he is the victim of the recent diamond robbery, which has created so much excitement? The newspapers have been full of the story that he has just related."



CHAPTER XII.

AMOS PALMER FINDS HIS SON.

"What do you mean?" Doctor Wesselhoff sharply demanded, and losing color himself at the sudden suspicion that he also might have been the dupe of a set of rogues.

"Haven't you seen an account of the affair in the papers?" Doctor Huff asked. "They were full of it for two weeks after you left home."

"No, I did not see a New York paper from the time I started until I returned. I could not get one, even if I had not had too many cares and been too much absorbed in my wife's critical condition to think of or read news of any kind," Doctor Wesselhoff replied. Then, with a sudden thought, as he turned again to Ray: "Young man, is not your name Walton?"

"You know it is not," said Ray, with a flash of indignation. "I told you, the day I came, that my name is Palmer—Raymond Palmer."

"He is the man!" cried the assistant, starting up and regarding the invalid with a look of fear, "and it was Amos Palmer, the diamond merchant, who was robbed!"

"Can it be possible!" exclaimed the physician, amazed at this intelligence. "That woman—Mrs. Walton—told me that he was her son, only at times he denied his own name, so when he told me his name was 'Palmer' that day I imagined it only a freak produced by his mania."

Ray had been regarding the man curiously during this speech. He surely did not appear like a person who would have anything to do with so daring a crime as that of which he had accused him. He was strikingly noble in appearance; his manner was quietly dignified and self-possessed—he had a finely shaped head, a kind eye, a genial smile, while his astonishment and dismay over what he had just been told seemed too genuine to be feigned.

"Did you not expect to find me in your reception-room? Did no lady inform you of my arrival on the day I came here?" Ray inquired, searching his face earnestly.

"No, I saw no lady—a servant came to tell me that a gentleman was waiting to see me," responded the doctor.

"Then she must have gone immediately out and made off with all possible speed," said Ray, musingly.

"But," Doctor Wesselhoff continued, as if he had not heard his remark, "the woman I spoke of—a Mrs. Walton—called upon me the previous day and arranged with me to take you as a patient. She was upward of fifty years of age, her hair was white, and she had the look of one who had known much care and sorrow."

He then proceeded to relate all that had occurred during the interview, and Ray was astonished at the daring scheme which had been so successfully planned and carried out.

When the physician concluded his account, Ray gravely and positively declared:

"I do not know any person by the name of Walton. If this woman told you that she was my mother, she uttered a falsehood, for I have no mother—she died more than ten years ago, and her place has been filled, as well as another could fill it, by a housekeeper. My home is No. 119 —— street; but, Doctor Wesselhoff, if you still doubt my statements, and imagine that I am laboring under a peculiar mania, you can easily ascertain the truth by bringing my father here to prove my assertions. I beg that you will do so without delay, for he must be suffering the most harrowing suspense on my account."

Doctor Wesselhoff looked very much disturbed, for the more he talked with Ray, the more fully convinced he was that he had been unconsciously lending his aid to further an atrocious crime.

But as he saw how pale and weary his patient was, he was recalled to a sense of his duty as a physician.

He arose and kindly took the young man's hand.

"I am very much afraid," he said, "that we are both the victims of a complicated plot; but let me assure you that so far as I am concerned, the wrong to you shall be made right without a moment's delay. Now I want you to go to sleep, and while you are resting I will seek an interview with the man whom you claim as your father."

Ray's weak fingers closed over the hand he held in a friendly clasp at this assurance, and he was at once inspired with implicit confidence in the physician.

"Thank you," he said, a trustful smile wreathing his thin lips, "I will be obedient and go to sleep, but I shall expect to find my father here when I awake."

"If Amos Palmer is your father, you will surely find him by your bedside after you have had your nap," Doctor Wesselhoff responded, and with another hand-clasp he withdrew from the room.

In less than five minutes Ray was sleeping quietly and restfully.

Half an hour later the great brain specialist rang the bell of Amos Palmer's handsome residence. The servant who answered it replied in the affirmative when asked if the gentleman of the house was in, and ushered the visitor into a richly furnished reception-room leading from the hall.

A few minutes later a sorrowful, despondent-looking gentleman entered, and politely, although somewhat absently, saluted his caller.

He did not look much like the upright, energetic and affable gentleman who had so courteously served the elegant Mrs. Vanderbeck a few weeks previous.

His face was wan and drawn with anguish, his cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken, heavy and lusterless; his form was bowed, his steps feeble and faltering.

After saluting Doctor Wesselhoff, he threw himself, with a heavy sigh, into a chair, where he immediately became absorbed in his own painful thoughts, appearing to forget that there was any one present, or that there were duties devolving upon him as host.

"Mr. Palmer," said the physician, breaking in upon his sorrowful reverie, "my name is Wesselhoff, and I have called to consult with you regarding the very peculiar circumstances connected with your son's disappearance."

Amos Palmer was like one electrified upon hearing this. He sat erect, and stared with wondering eyes at his companion, and began to tremble violently.

"My son! my son!" he cried, in quavering tones. "Oh, if you can tell me anything—if you can tell me that he—lives," the word was scarcely audible, "you will put new life into me."

"Tell me his full name, if you please," said Doctor Wesselhoff, who was scarcely less excited than the trembling man before him.

"Raymond Palmer."

"Describe him to me."

Amos Palmer gave him a minute description of the young man as he appeared on the day that he had been trapped into the physician's house, even to the clothing which he had worn, and the doctor was at last convinced that, all unwittingly, he had assisted in the perpetration of a double crime.

"Yes," he said, when the eager father had concluded, and feeling that he must at once relieve the terrible suspense under which his companion was laboring; "your son lives, and is longing to see his father."

"Oh, then, I have nothing more to wish for—the world will be bright to me once more, for he was my all, Doctor Wesselhoff—my last, and best beloved. I have laid six children in the grave, and all my hopes were centered in Ray. My boy! my boy! I am content to know that you live—that you are not lost to me!"

The over-wrought man broke down utterly at this point, bowed his face upon his hands, and sobbed almost convulsively.

Doctor Wesselhoff was also greatly moved at the sight of his emotion, but as soon as he could control himself sufficiently, he remarked:

"I have a very strange story to tell you, Mr. Palmer, and you may be inclined, as your son was at first, to suspect me of complicity in the affair. I am, however, willing to be subjected to a rigorous investigation, if you demand it; but let me assure you that the moment I discovered the truth, I saw that I, as well as you, had been wretchedly imposed upon, and I was anxious to do all in my power to right the wrong."

He then related all that he had told Ray, and all that we already know, while Amos Palmer listened with wonder to the unfolding of the bold and cunning scheme which had so baffled the police and the best detectives in New York.

"It is the most devilish plot I ever heard of if you will excuse the expression," Mr. Palmer excitedly exclaimed, when his visitor had concluded his narrative.

"It certainly was a very brazen one, yet very cleverly arranged, and just as artfully carried out," Doctor Wesselhoff remarked; and then he inquired, while he regarded his companion with earnest interest: "But have you no doubts as to the truth of my statements? Have you no suspicions that I might also be concerned in the plot?"

"No, sir; I am impressed that you are a man of truth and honor. I have heard of you, and know something of your reputation; and I can but feel thankful that my son fell into your hands, rather than into the clutches of some unprincipled villain," Mr. Palmer replied, with a hearty confidence in his tones that could not be doubted. Then he added: "Excuse me for a few moments while I order my carriage, then you shall take me at once to my son."

Amos Palmer seemed a changed man now that hope throbbed once more in his heart, and he started up with all his old-time vigor and energy to leave the room.

But Doctor Wesselhoff stopped him.

"My own carriage is at your door—do not wait for yours; come at once with me and I will have you sent home when you are ready to return; but Mr. Palmer, you must be prepared to find your son greatly changed, for he has been very ill; the worst is over, however, and he will gain rapidly now, if we take proper care of him."

In a few moments the two men were driving rapidly toward the physician's residence, while they more fully discussed the affair of the robbery, and the skillful way in which it had been managed.

"I would never have believed that a woman could have nerve enough to attempt anything so daring," Mr. Palmer remarked. "I should have been willing to take my oath that she—this Mrs. Vanderbeck, so called—was just what she pretended to be—a refined and cultured lady accustomed to the most polished society. She did not overdo her part in the least, and had one of the most frank and beautiful faces that I have ever seen. Her figure and carriage were superb, her manner charming. The only peculiar thing about her was her hair, which was a decided red, as were also her eyebrows, and lashes. She had fine teeth, and she was very richly, though modestly, dressed. She came to the store apparently in her own carriage, with a colored driver, and everything seemed to indicate that she belonged in the ranks of high life."

"The woman who came to me, to make arrangements for the treatment of her pretended son, was a much older woman than you describe," Doctor Wesselhoff said, in reply, "her hair was almost white, her face was somewhat wrinkled, and she appeared sad and depressed. It must be that there were two women concerned in the affair, for my visitor remarked that since her son, when under the influence of his mania, was so determined to have her arrested, she would send her sister, whom she called Mrs. Vanderbeck, with him."

"Hum—maybe my adventuress was the same person in disguise," Mr. Palmer thoughtfully observed.

"But you said she had red hair, brows, and lashes, and was quite young in appearance; while Mrs. Walton was old and wrinkled, with white hair; the brows and lashes I did not notice particularly, but they certainly were not red," Doctor Wesselhoff responded, doubtfully.

"Well, whether they were one and the same or not, the whole thing is a perplexing puzzle, and I would sacrifice a good deal to have it solved," said Mr. Palmer. "But," he added, with a sigh, "I am afraid that it never will be, for the thieves, in all probability, left New York immediately, and were sharp enough to remove the diamonds from their settings before attempting to dispose of them."

"They may overreach themselves yet and be brought to justice," Doctor Wesselhoff remarked. "But is there no way of identifying the diamonds unset?"

"Some of them—two in particular—could be identified; they were a pair of magnificent solitaires, and I am sure my expert could tell them anywhere," Mr. Palmer replied.

"It is strange that you were not suspicious of a person who wished to purchase so many diamonds at one time," said the physician, thoughtfully.

"She did not pretend that she wished to buy all that she laid out, only that her selections from the lot were to be made with the advice and sanction of her husband; and in this way—don't you see?—the clever sharper got possession of a great deal more than she would otherwise have done."

"True, she showed herself very shrewd. But your son has in his possession a clew, though a very slender one, which may possibly lead to a solution of the mystery. It is a small piece of cloth that was torn from the woman's dress," Doctor Wesselhoff returned.

"I am afraid that won't amount to much, for, probably, if the woman is still in New York, which I doubt, she will never wear that dress again," Mr. Palmer responded. "But," he continued, cheerfully, "I shall not complain as long as I am to have Ray back again. I fully believed that he had been murdered. My loss I can never tell you what anguish I have endured, for will of course eat deeply into the profits of my business for this year, but that is of comparatively little consequence. I am more troubled to have such wickedness prosper than I am about any pecuniary loss."

The carriage stopped just then, and the conversation ended. Both gentlemen alighted, and Doctor Wesselhoff led the way into his house, and straight up to the chamber which Ray occupied.

He had not aroused once during the doctor's absence, but awoke almost immediately after their entrance, and the meeting between the father and son was both joyful and tender.

Neither had ever before realized how much they were to each other, or believed that life could be so dark if they were separated.

Doctor Wesselhoff would not allow them to talk very much that night, for he said that his patient was liable to have a relapse if he became too weary or was subjected to too much excitement; so Mr. Palmer was permitted to remain only a short time with him, but promised to return again at as early an hour in the morning as the physician would allow.

He visited Ray twice every day after that, and both father and son were fully convinced of the truth and honesty of purpose of the noted specialist, who had given Ray such excellent care, and whose interest in him continued to increase throughout his recovery.

The Palmers found him very genial and entertaining, and an enduring friendship grew up between the three.

Ray improved very rapidly, and was able by the end of two weeks to return to his own home; but, though he was very thankful to be restored to health and to his father once more he was saddened and dismayed upon learning of Mr. Dinsmore's sudden death, and that Mona had been deprived of her inheritance.

He was still more appalled when, upon making inquiries, he could learn nothing of her movements since leaving her home. No one seemed to know anything about her—even her friend Susie Leades was in ignorance of her whereabouts, for Mona had shrunk, with extreme sensitiveness, from telling any one, save Mr. Graves, of her plans for the future.

Ray did not know who had been Mr. Dinsmore's man of business, so, of course, he could not appeal to the lawyer, and he was finally forced to believe that Mona had left New York.

He could not be reconciled to have her vanish so completely out of his life, just when he had begun to entertain such strong hopes of winning her for his wife.

For more than two years he had loved Mona Montague in secret, but only during the last few months had he allowed himself to show her marked attention.

She had been in school until the previous June, and he had felt sure that Mr. Dinsmore would not countenance anything that would distract her mind from her studies, therefore he had waited, with commendable patience, until she graduated before making it manifest that he experienced any especial pleasure in her society.

Mr. Dinsmore and Mona had spent the months of July and August at Lenox, Massachusetts, and Ray, having learned their plans, arranged to be there at the same time. Therefore the young people had seen considerable of each other during the summer, and before their return to New York, Ray Palmer had begun to have strong hopes that he should eventually win the beautiful girl for his wife.

They met several times in society during the early winter, and Mona always appeared so happy with him that he gradually grew bolder in his attentions, and finally formally requested the pleasure of acting as her escort in public. This request was granted, as we know, and cordial permission to call was also given him, and when Ray left Mona that night, after their attendance at the opera, he resolved to seek Mr. Dinsmore at an early day and ask the privilege of paying his addresses to his niece with the view of winning her.

But he was very unhappy over his fruitless efforts to find her, and he grew strangely silent and depressed, greatly to his father's surprise, even while he was every day gaining in health and strength.

Finally Mr. Palmer questioned him outright as to the cause; and Ray, longing for both sympathy and advice, frankly told him the truth.

"That is too bad, Ray, and I am extremely sorry," the royal-hearted man remarked. "I should be very sorry to have you disappointed in such a matter, but do not be discouraged; we will do our best to find the young lady, and then you shall bring her home as soon as you please."

"Then you approve of my choice?" Ray remarked, with some surprise at his father's interest and even anxiety to have him succeed in his suit.

"Why not? I do not know Miss Montague, but I am sure that a niece of Mr. Dinsmore, and reared with the care which he would be likely to bestow upon her, could be objectionable to no one. Mr. Dinsmore was one of the noblest of men," said Mr. Palmer, with hearty commendation.

"But Mona is only a penniless girl now," Ray responded, determined that his father should fully comprehend the situation. "Mr. Dinsmore's wife has claimed all his property, I have been told, and even if I could find and win her, my bride would have to come to me without any dowry."

"That wouldn't trouble me in the least, my boy, provided the girl herself was all right," his father gravely returned. "We have enough," he continued, smiling, "without desiring to enrich ourselves by marrying money. You shall choose your own wife, Ray, be she rich or poor, plain or beautiful; only find a sensible little woman who will be a true wife and make you happy, and I shall be more than satisfied."

"Thank you, father," Ray gratefully returned. "I wish there were more men like yourself in the world—there would surely be fewer ill-assorted marriages if there were. Only let me find Mona, and I will soon convince you that she will be a girl after your own heart, as well as mine."



CHAPTER XIII.

AT THE RECEPTION.

One evening, after Ray's entire restoration to health, he and his father attended a reception given by an old friend of Mr. Palmer's.

It was an unusually brilliant affair, for the Merrills were wealthy people, and very socially inclined, and many of the best people of New York were present.

Mr. Palmer was conversing with his host in a quiet way during a few moments while he was at liberty, when his attention was attracted by the entrance of a new arrival, whose advent seemed to create an unusual flutter of interest.

"Who is she?" he inquired, as the lady slowly approached them, smiling, bowing, and responding to the eager greetings on every hand. "She is a magnificent-looking woman."

"She is Mrs. Montague—a wealthy widow, and a great favorite in society," his friend replied, while his own eyes rested admiringly upon the lady.

"Montague! Montague!" Mr. Palmer repeated reflectively, while he said to himself: "That is the name of Ray's little lady-love; perhaps this woman is a relative, and the girl has gone to live with her. I must find out about that." Then, with this thought in view, he added, aloud; "Introduce me, will you, Merrill?"

His host glanced roguishly at him, and a smile of amusement hovered about his lips as he replied:

"Certainly, if you wish, but I give you fair warning that she is a dangerous party, and especially so to widowers—there are a dozen, more or less, who have already had their wings thoroughly singed."

Mr. Palmer smiled with an air of calm superiority.

"Well, Merrill, I admit that she is as fine-looking a woman as I have ever seen," he said, "but I believe that I am proof against the blandishments of the fair sex upon principle; for," more gravely, "I have never had any desire to change my condition since I lost my wife. My reason for requesting the introduction was, I thought Mrs. Montague might be able to give me some information regarding another lady of the same name."

"All right; an introduction you shall have; but pray take heed to my warning, all the same, and look out for yourself," was the laughing rejoinder. "Ah," as he bowed graciously to the lady approaching them, "we are very glad to be favored with your presence this evening, and now allow me to present a friend; Mrs. Montague, Mr. Palmer."

The brilliant woman shot one sweeping glance out of her expressive eyes at the gentleman and then extended her faultlessly gloved hand to him in cordial greeting.

"I am very glad to make Mr. Palmer's acquaintance," she said, graciously, "although," she added, with a charming smile, "I cannot look upon him quite as a stranger, for I have friends who frequently speak of him, and in a way that has made one wish to know him personally."

Mr. Palmer flushed slightly as he bowed in acknowledgment of such high praise, and remarked that he felt himself greatly honored.

Mrs. Montague then adroitly changed the tenor of the conversation, and kept him chatting some time, before he thought of Mona again, and when he did, he hardly knew how to broach the subject to his companion.

"Have you resided long in New York, Mrs. Montague?" he inquired, after a slight pause in their conversation.

"Only about six months, but, Mr. Palmer, during that time, I have found your city a most delightful one, socially," the lady returned.

"I understand that Mrs. Montague is quite a favorite in society, which accounts, in a measure, perhaps, for her own enjoyment of its people," the gentleman gallantly responded.

Mrs. Montague flushed slightly and lowered her white lids, modestly, for an instant, and Mr. Palmer continued:

"Allow me to ask, Mrs. Montague, if you ever met Mr. Walter Dinsmore?"

"Dinsmore—Dinsmore," repeated his fair companion, with a puzzled expression; "it seems as if I have heard the name, and yet—I am quite sure that I have met no such person since my residence in New York. Let me see," she added, as if suddenly remembering something—"did I not read in the papers, a short time ago, of the death of the gentleman—he was quite a prominent citizen, was he not?"

"Yes, and much respected; he died suddenly, leaving a large fortune. The reason I inquired if you knew him," Mr. Palmer explained, "was because he left a niece whose name is the same as yours, and I thought possibly you might be a relative of the family. Miss Mona Montague is the young lady's name."

"Mona Montague?" repeated Mrs. Montague, burying her face for an instant in the bouquet she carried as if to inhale its perfume. "No, I think not—I have no relatives in New York except a nephew, who is the same as a son to me. We came to your city entire strangers to every one. But how old is this Miss Montague?"

"About eighteen years of age, I believe. She was said to be a very beautiful girl, and every one supposed her to be Mr. Dinsmore's heiress; but it seems that he had a wife living, although he was supposed to be a widower—who claimed everything, and thus Miss Montague was rendered homeless and penniless. She has certainly disappeared from the circle in which she hitherto mingled."

"How exceedingly unfortunate!" murmured Mr. Palmer's fair listener, with apparent sympathy.

"Very," said the gentleman; "and as we—I feel deeply interested in her, I hoped, when I heard your name, that you might prove to be a relative, and could give me some information regarding her."

"I should be most happy to oblige you, Mr. Palmer," Mrs. Montague sweetly returned, "but I have never met the young lady, and I know nothing about her present circumstances. Is she a connection of yours?"

"No, madame—that is, not as yet," Mr. Palmer answered, with a slight twinge of embarrassment. "I knew Mr. Dinsmore, however, and it seems a very sad thing that his niece should be deprived of both home and fortune, as well as her only friend, especially when he was so fond of her and intended that she would inherit his property. I would give a great deal to know where she is; she would not long be without a home if I could find her."

"Does the man want to marry the girl?" was Mrs. Montague's mental query, as she glanced keenly at her companion. "I begin to believe I should like to see this wonderful creature."

"You say she is very beautiful?" she remarked, aloud.

"So I have been told, and very lovely in character, also."

"Then you have never seen her? Surely you are very philanthropic to be so deeply interested in an entire stranger," Mrs. Montague observed. Then, without giving him an opportunity to reply, she asked, abruptly: "Mr. Palmer, who is that lady just entering the room? She is very striking in appearance, and what a profusion of magnificent diamonds she has on her person!"

Mr. Palmer started at this last observation, and turned to look at the new arrival.

He saw a woman of about thirty-five, rather stout in figure, very showily dressed, and wearing a great many exquisite diamonds of great value.

The man's keen eyes went flashing over her with eager scrutiny, his heart beating rapidly, as he asked himself if it might not be possible that some of his own precious gems were among the jewels that she wore.

The suspicion flashed upon him, in spite of the fact that the woman was a guest in the house of his friend, for he knew that thieves had been found mingling with the brilliant throngs attending regular receptions in New York, and might be again.

But of course he could recognize none of them under such circumstances, and his face fell after one sweeping glance.

"It would be impossible to identify any of the stones without a glass, even if they were there," he said to himself; "for, of course, the thief, whoever she was, would have had the stones reset before wearing them anywhere."

"Yes," he said, aloud, "the lady has a fortune upon her person; but I do not know her. Speaking of diamonds," he continued, glancing at the ornaments which Mrs. Montague wore, "you will pardon me, I am sure, if I tell you that you, also, have some very fine stones. I consider myself a connoisseur regarding diamonds and capable of judging."

"Yes," Mrs. Montague quietly responded, "I have some choice ones, and I am very fond of diamonds; but I have never seen any one, unless it was an actress, with such a profusion of them as that lady. I do not think I should care to wear so many at one time, even if I possessed them."

"No, it hardly seems in good taste," Mr. Palmer replied, then added: "My son is beckoning me; will you excuse me for a moment?"

"Your son!" exclaimed the lady, with a light laugh and an arch look. "Surely, Mr. Palmer, you cannot have a son old enough to mingle in society like this?"

"Indeed I have, and you can see for yourself—he is standing yonder by that large easel," the gentleman returned, laughing also, and evidently well pleased to be regarded younger than he really was.

"I must confess my surprise," said the charming widow, as she darted a curious glance at the young man, "but since you assert it I must not doubt your word, and I will say, also, that you have every reason to be proud of your son. But—I will not detain you," she added, bowing gracefully; "only I trust that I may have the pleasure of meeting you again."

"Thank you, madame; you honor me," the diamond merchant replied, as he, too, bowed, and then passed on.

"Merrill said truly," he muttered, as he made his way through the crowd toward Ray; "she is certainly a very charming woman; I don't wonder that she is a favorite in society. Well, what is it, Ray, my boy?" he asked, as he reached his son's side.

"Did you notice that woman who entered the room a moment or two ago?" the young man asked, in a low tone.

"The one wearing so many diamonds?"

"Yes; and, father, I believe there is some of our property about her."

"I thought of it, too, Ray, but only because she wore so many stones, I suppose. We surely have no right to suspect her of being the thief," said Mr. Palmer, gravely.

"Perhaps not; but I did, all the same."

"She does not look at all like that Mrs. Vanderbeck," Mr. Palmer remarked, as he again singled out the woman, and observed her closely.

"I don't know; her form is not unlike; and put a red wig on her, she might pass—"

"Pshaw, Ray," interrupted his father, "you are letting your imagination run away with you; she cannot be the same person; her features are entirely different, and she is too stout."

"Well, that may be; but I am impressed that some of those stones belong to us," Ray said, following the woman with a critical glance.

"If any of them are ours, we have no means of identifying them," Mr. Palmer responded. "I have given them up as a dead loss, and do not believe that we shall ever discover the thief."

Ray looked very sober.

"I am very sore over that affair, father," he said, gravely. "If I had not allowed my head to be turned by that fascinating woman, I never should have lost them. She just smiled and talked all the sense out of me. I ought never to have removed my hand from that package, even to prevent a dozen tailor-made dresses from being torn, and then she could not have stolen it."

"Don't grieve over it, Ray, for it will not avail," his father returned, kindly. "Experience is the best teacher, and no one will ever rob us in the same way again."

"I do not think that is likely, and yet I cannot get over it; I cannot bear to consider the gems irretrievably lost, even yet."

"You may as well, for I am sure we shall never see any of them again," said Mr. Palmer, calmly.

"Who is this lady approaching us?" Ray asked, after a moment. "You were talking to her when I motioned to you."

Mr. Palmer glanced up.

"That is a Mrs. Montague—"

"Montague!" interrupted Ray, in a startled tone. "Can she be anything to Mona?"

"No, nothing. I asked the question upon learning her name," his father answered.

Ray sighed heavily; then, as his glance still lingered upon the beautiful woman, he exclaimed:

"Isn't she lovely? I believe she is the purest blonde I have ever seen. Her hair is like spun gold, her features are faultless, and her neck and arms are as perfect as if sculptured from marble."

"Take care, Ray," said his father, with a sly smile; "people say that she is a perfect siren. I have myself been warned against her to-night."

"Pshaw!" retorted the young man. "Where is her husband?"

"She has none, and therein lies the danger."

"Ah! a widow! How old is she?"

"Not more than twenty-eight or thirty, I judge—at least, she does not look it in full dress, and she is very charming in manner. Merrill says that all the men, both old and young, are making fools of themselves over her."

"Well, then, you and I will not help to swell the list," said Ray, curtly, a trifle irritated that his staid and dignified father should have so much to say about the gay society woman; and turning on his heel, he moved away, with the purpose of approaching the one whose diamonds had attracted so much attention. He meant to seek an introduction, and get an opportunity to examine the stones more closely.

Fifteen minutes later he stood bowing before her, as a friend presented him, and he was long in recovering from the shock which went through him as he caught the name by which she was introduced:

"Mrs. Vanderbeck, allow me to present my friend, Mr. Palmer."

"Pardon me. Did I understand the name—Mrs. Vanderbeck?" Ray said, trying to control the rapid throbbing of his pulses, and putting a slight emphasis upon the last syllable of the name.

He was sure that the lady started and changed color as he did so, for he was watching her closely.

"No," she said; "you haven't it quite right; we spell it h-e-c-k."

But she seemed strangely ill at ease during the few moments that Ray stood conversing with her, while from time to time he caught her regarding him curiously. He did not, however, get any satisfaction from his examination of her ornaments; for among such a blazing array of diamonds it was impossible to tell if he had ever seen any of them before.

"I believe she was connected in some way with that strange affair. She may be the woman who called upon Doctor Wesselhoff to arrange for my imprisonment," he said to himself, after he had left her. "At all events," he added, resolutely, "I am going to lay the matter before Detective Rider, and see what he thinks about it."

He was more strongly confirmed in his suspicions a few minutes later, when he saw Mrs. Vanderheck bidding her host and hostess good-night, and then withdraw from the company.

About ten o'clock supper was served, and, strangely enough, after the company was seated, Ray found that his left-hand neighbor was no other than the fascinating Mrs. Montague, while, glancing beyond her, he saw that his father had acted as her escort to the table.

It annoyed him exceedingly to see them together, and to observe the gallantry with which his father was attending to the fair widow's wants.

During all the years that had elapsed since the death of his mother, Mr. Palmer had not manifested the slightest desire for the society of ladies, and Ray had never thought of such a thing as his marrying again.

But now it suddenly flashed across him: "What if this gay woman of the world, with her beauty and powers of fascination, should tempt him to make her the mistress of his home and wealth?"

The thought was far from agreeable to him, and yet he could not have told why.

He could find no fault with Mrs. Montague personally; she was beautiful in face and figure; she was delightful in manner. Why, then, did he shrink from the thought of having her come into the family?

Was he jealous? Was he selfish? Did he begrudge his father the comfort and enjoyment of a more perfect domestic life? Was he unwilling to have any one come between them? Was he fearful that his own prospects—his expectations of wealth—would be affected by such a union?

All these questions darted through his mind, and he felt shamed and humiliated by them. He could not analyze his feelings; he only knew that the thought was not pleasant to him.

Mr. Palmer soon espied his son, and leaning back in his chair, asked, with his usual genial smile:

"Well, Ray, who have you for a companion?"

"Miss Grace Merrill," he briefly responded.

"Ah! a pleasant girl; but allow me to make you acquainted with your left-hand neighbor also; Mrs. Montague, my son, Mr. Raymond Palmer."

Mrs. Montague turned to the young man with her most brilliant smile, though a gleam of amusement illuminated her lovely eyes, as she remarked the conscious flush upon the elder gentleman's face, as he performed the ceremony of introduction.

"I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Palmer," she said: "but I could hardly believe that you were the son when your father pointed you out to me."

Ray could not have been ungracious beneath the charm of her manner, even had he been naturally so, and he soon found himself disarmed of all his disagreeable reflections and basking with delight in the sunshine of her presence, her bright wit and repartee, and her sweet, rippling laugh. By the time supper was over it would have been difficult to tell who was the more ardent admirer of the fascinating widow—the father or the son.

Later in the evening she ran across him again by accident(?), and another half-hour spent in her society completed the glamour which she had thrown around him at supper, and, in spite of his assertion to the contrary, it really seemed as if Raymond Palmer was likely to help swell the "list of fools" who blindly worshiped at her shrine.



CHAPTER XIV.

LOUIS HAMBLIN IS INTERESTED IN MONA.

Mrs. Richmond Montague had a purpose in honoring Mr. Palmer and his handsome son with so much of her society on the evening of Mr. Merrill's reception.

When Mr. Palmer had mentioned the name of Mona Montague, inquiring if she was a relative of the young girl, a sudden shock had thrilled through her nerves, for it was a name which, for certain reasons, with her whole heart, she had hated, although, as she believed, she had never seen the young lady.

Before the evening was over, however, she had learned why the diamond merchant was so anxious to find the ex-heiress of Walter Dinsmore.

She discovered, by adroit references and questions, by putting this and that together, that Ray Palmer was in love with the girl; that the old gentleman favored his suit in spite of her poverty, and would willingly have sanctioned an immediate marriage if she could have been found.

"So much for this evening, and now I wish that I could find the girl," she mused, as she stood before her mirror and removed her ornaments, after returning from the reception. "So she is beautiful! I wonder if she looks like her mother—my hated rival! Ah! Mona Montague, I vowed that I would have vengeance, and I had it. You dared to come between me and the man I loved, and I swore I would crush you—I did, and now I mean to crush your child also, if I can find her. True, I won your husband after you were dead and gone, but he never loved me as he loved you, in spite of my blind idolatry for him."

She had become greatly excited over these reflections, and, sweeping into a heap the laces and jewels which she had removed from her person, she began pacing the floor with swift, angry steps.

"I wish now," she began again, after a time, "that I had gone to Walter Dinsmore's funeral, if for nothing more than to get a glimpse of the girl; but he bore me no good-will, and somehow I could not make up my mind to enter his house. I am sorry I didn't, for then I should have known this pretty little lady-love of Mr. Ray Palmer, if ever I met her again. Now I may have a long hunt for her. It was a great oversight on my part; but I never thought of her disappearing in such a mysterious way."

After a while she removed her rich evening costume, then donning a warm flannel wrapper, she seated herself before the glowing grate, clasped her hands around her knees, and, gazing upon the bed of red-hot coals, she fell to musing.

"So young Palmer is bound to marry Richmond Montague's fair daughter," she murmured, with curling lips and a bitter laugh; "and his father is only too willing, provided she can be found. Ha! ha! ha!" a soft, rippling laugh of intense amusement and scorn bursting from her red lips. "I wonder what they would say if they knew all that I know? I'd give a great deal if I could ascertain just how much the girl knows about herself. She could make a great deal of trouble for me if—"

She broke off suddenly just here, but after a few moments of thought resumed, in another strain:

"I believe I shall have to cultivate my new acquaintances. I think I can play the father against the son, and, vice versa, for it was evident to-night that both, with very little encouragement, would become my willing slaves. I imagine that the senior Palmer might make a very agreeable companion. He is reported to be rich—a diamond merchant, and I am fond of diamonds. He is certainly very gallant and not bad-looking. Yes, I think I must cultivate him; and then, if the junior member should discover his inamorata by and by, a word in the ear of the father might be sufficient to blast Miss Mona's hopes, and thus complete the work I began so successfully—at least in some respects—so many years ago. Ah, Madame Mona, you did not realize the strength of the spirit which you defied that day in Paris. I made you believe that your marriage was all a sham, but if I could have made it really so I should have been better pleased with my work, for then I should have had nothing to fear, at this late day, from your child."

It is impossible to describe the venom and hatred that were concentrated in the voice of this beautiful woman, as she thus reviewed this portion of her history, which, as can plainly be seen, had left a keen sting in her heart, notwithstanding her boasted victory over her rival.

It did not seem possible that she could be the same person, with her dark, revengeful face, her contracted brow, fiercely gleaming eyes, and that cruel, bitter curl upon her lips, who, in all the glory of her beauty and powers of fascination, had been the centre of attraction in Alexander Merrill's elegant residence less than two hours previous.

It almost seemed as if she must be possessed of a dual nature, similar to that so cleverly represented in the story of "Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde." Then, she had been all smiles, and sweetness, and graciousness, a vision of delight, a presence that charmed and pleased every one with whom she came in contact; now, she was transformed into a beautiful fiend, with a nature of spite and fury, and cruel revenge written upon every delicate feature.

She sat there in the glow of the firelight until the gilded clock on the mantel chimed the hour of two; then, with passion and pain showing themselves in her every movement, she arose, and without undressing, threw herself upon her bed, and wept herself to sleep.

* * * * *

Mona was gradually becoming accustomed to her new life, although it was so very different from the almost charmed existence which she had hitherto led, and had it not been for her grief for her uncle and on account of Ray's seeming neglect and indifference, she would not have been unhappy in her position.

Mrs. Montague was not unreasonable—she did not overwork her, although there was always plenty of sewing to be done. She rather enjoyed being busy, on the whole, while she experienced a great deal of satisfaction in knowing that she could be independent; she even felt something of pride, in thus rising above the adverse circumstances that had so unexpectedly overtaken her.

She was very careful about her health, for she knew that this sudden change from her previous active care-free life to such sedentary habits, must be a great tax upon her constitution, and so she persisted in taking exercise in the open air every day, although often she would have preferred to remain in the house.

A couple of days after her encounter with Mr. Louis Hamblin upon the steps of Mrs. Montague's residence, she was returning from her usual stroll, when the young man again suddenly appeared around the corner of a street she was passing, and almost ran into her.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Richards," he exclaimed, stopping short, and regarding her with apparent surprise, while he lifted his hat to her with great politeness, "I hope I did not startle you."

"Oh, no; and you are quite excusable," Mona responded, but somewhat astonished that he should address her by her name; but she imagined that he must have asked Mrs. Montague who she was.

She was about to hasten on, when he remarked:

"Since we are both going the same way, perhaps you will allow me to walk with you."

Mona would have preferred to proceed on her way alone, but she had not quite the courage to say so, since he appeared so courteous, so she made no reply at all.

The young man took her silence for consent, and, falling into step with her, began chatting as freely as if they had been old acquaintances.

His manner was very respectful, while there was nothing in what he said to which she could in the least object—indeed, she found him rather entertaining at first, and almost forgot, for the time, that she was Ruth Richards, the seamstress, instead of Mona Montague, the heiress, and social equal of any high-toned young man whom she might meet.

"Have you lived long in New York, Miss Richards?" Mr. Hamblin inquired, after he had rattled on about various matters, and Mona had hardly spoken. He desired to hear her talk, that he might judge of her mental caliber.

"Yes, thirteen or fourteen years," Mona replied.

Louis Hamblin frowned; he had hoped that she was a stranger there.

"Ah! Then of course New York is very familiar to you," he remarked. "Do your friends reside here?"

"No—I have no friends;" Mona said, flushing and with starting tears.

"Indeed," returned her companion, in a tone of sympathy, "I noticed that you were in mourning—I am very sorry."

Mona had heard so few words of sympathy of late that she came near losing her self-control at this, and she found herself unable to make any reply, lest her tears should fall.

"You look very delicate, too," her companion continued, bending a curious glance upon her. "I am sure you have not always lived as you are living now; it must be very hard to sit and sew all day. I hope you find my aunt considerate, Miss Richards."

Mona was astonished at this last remark which she thought was in very bad taste, and she turned a cold, questioning glance upon him.

"If at any time you should not," he went on, flippantly, "just let me know, Miss Richards, and I will see what I can do for you, for I have considerable influence with Aunt Marg."

Mona looked amazed, and wondered what he could mean by speaking in such a way of Mrs. Montague.

He had made a grand mistake in assuming that she should make a confidant of him—an entire stranger—in the event of her being overworked by his aunt.

"Mrs. Montague has been very good," she said, icily, and drawing her slight, graceful figure haughtily erect, "but—if at any time I should find my duties heavier than I could perform faithfully, I should tell her so and seek some other position."

Mr. Hamblin flushed hotly—not with embarrassment, although he had seldom had such a rebuff, but with anger and chagrin that a poor sewing-girl whom he had seen fit to patronize, should dare to give him such a set-back.

But he had no intentions of being beaten at his game, and so curbed his ire for the time.

"Pardon me," he humbly responded, "I did not mean to offend you nor to interfere, 'pon my word I didn't; only you seem so delicate and unfit for such a life; and fashionable ladies have such oceans of work to be done that they sometimes crowd their help—I—"

"Excuse me—I must leave you here; my work is waiting for me," Mona interposed, coldly, and cutting him short as they reached Mrs. Montague's residence.

She ran lightly up the steps and rang the bell before he could offer to admit her with his latch-key as before.

A servant let her in immediately, and she went directly up stairs, without deigning her would-be escort another word or look, while she carried herself with so much hauteur that he knew she resented his presumptuous familiarity.

"Hoity toity!" he muttered, with a crimson face; "our pretty seamstress hath the manner of a princess! One would almost suppose that she had been born and bred in a palace and was the mistress of millions, instead of being only a common working-girl and dependent upon the skill of her own dainty fingers for her living. But she is wonderfully interesting, aside from her beauty, and I must change my tactics or I shall never get into her good graces. Who would have dreamed that she would have the sense to resent my offer. Most girls would have blushed, simpered, and thanked me, feeling flattered with my condescending interest."

Mr. Hamblin did change his tactics.

The next morning, when Mona went into the sewing-room, she found a tiny vase filled with choice flowers upon her table.

She suspected that Mr. Hamblin might have been the donor, and she was annoyed that he should presume to take such a liberty upon so slight an acquaintance. Still, she was not sure that he had put them there, and the pretty things made a bright spot in the room, while their fragrance was not without its charm for her; so she did enjoy them in a measure.

"Where did you get your flowers, Ruth?" Mrs. Montague inquired, when she came in later to inquire regarding a wrap that was being mended, and espied them.

"My flowers!" Mona said, determined that she would not claim them; "they are not mine, and I do not know who put them here. I found them on the table when I came down this morning."

Mrs. Montague frowned, but said nothing more.

She suspected who had made the floral offering, however, and secretly resolved that Louis should not be guilty of continuing such attentions to her seamstress.

She gave orders to Mary to go into the sewing-room every morning before breakfast, and if she found flowers there to take them down to the dining-room and put them upon the table.

The girl found a bouquet on Mona's table three mornings in succession.

She carried out her mistress' instructions to the letter, and Mr. Louis Hamblin, observing the disposition of his expensive gifts, imagined that the pretty seamstress herself had taken this way to reject them.

The measure angered him, and only made him more resolute to conquer Mona's indifference and pride.

"By Jove!" he said to himself, as he gazed frowningly upon the discarded blossoms, "I believe I am really becoming interested in the proud little beauty, and I must find some other way to bring her around. It is evident that she recognizes the social distance between us, and wishes me to understand it. Perhaps, however, with a little judicious coaxing of a different character, I may win her to a more friendly mood."

He waylaid Mona several times after that, while she was out walking, but, though she never forgot to conduct herself in the most lady-like manner she plainly indicated by her coldness and reserve that she did not care to cultivate Mr. Hamblin's acquaintance.

This opposition to his wishes only made him the more persistent, and added zest to his pursuit of her.

The girl's exquisite beauty and grace—her high-bred self-possession and polished manner—impressed him as he had never been impressed before, even by the society girls whom he was in the habit of meeting, and Kitty McKenzie's charms grew pale and dim beside the brighter and more perfect loveliness of this dainty sewing-girl.

When Mona found that the young man persisted in following her and forcing his society upon her, she changed the time of her daily walk to an hour when she knew he would be down town, and she also took care to go in different directions, thus successfully avoiding him for some time.

But fortune favored him later on.

One morning Mrs. Montague came into the sewing-room all animation, and beaming with smiles.

"Ruth, I am going to ask a great favor of you," she said: "I wonder if you will oblige me."

"Certainly, Mrs. Montague, I shall be very glad to do so, if it is within my power," Mona readily responded.

"Well, then," continued the lady, "I am invited to spend a week at the residence of a friend who lives near Rhinebeck, a little way up the Hudson. Quite a party are going also, and great preparations have been made for us. In fact, it is to be a sort of carnival, on a small scale, and is to wind up with a grand ball. Now, I want you to go with me, Ruth, to help arrange my different costumes, and to act as a kind of dressing-maid—you have such good taste and judgment. Will you go? You will, of course, be relieved from your regular work, while, perhaps, you will find the rest and change agreeable."

Mona thought a few moments before replying.

Her only objection to going with Mrs. Montague was she feared she might meet people whom she had known and associated with before her uncle died. She dreaded to be ignored or treated rudely by old acquaintances. She could not forget her recent experience at Macy's.

But she reasoned that she might not see any one whom she knew; she had never met Mrs. Montague in society, and her circle of friends might be entirely different from those with whom she had mingled. She longed for a respite from ceaseless stitching, and for some change of scene, and she finally resolved to go.

"Why, yes, I am perfectly willing to attend you if you wish," she said at last.

"Thank you—you have relieved my mind of quite a burden, for I feared you might decline my request," Mrs. Montague returned, and then went away to do her packing.

They were to leave New York that afternoon, but Mona had not once thought that Louis Hamblin would be likely to be one of the party, until he joined Mrs. Montague at the station.

There were a dozen or fifteen people in the party, and the young man was devotedly attentive to a pretty dark-eyed girl, who was addressed as Kitty McKenzie.

His eyes lighted with a flash of pleasure, however, the moment he caught sight of Mona, although he betrayed no other sign that he had ever seen her before.

The fair girl flushed with indignation at this slight.

Not because she was at all anxious to have him take notice of her, but because he failed to treat her, in the presence of his friends and social equals, with the courtesy which he had always been so eager to show her elsewhere.

It was a very gay party, and, as a drawing-room car had been chartered for their especial use, there was nothing to impose any restraint upon them, and mirth and pleasure reigned.

Two-thirds of the company were young people, and Kitty McKenzie was one of the merriest of the group, and apparently a great favorite, while it could be readily seen that the attentions of Louis Hamblin were very acceptable to her—her every look and smile, when conversing with him, indicating that he was far more to her than an ordinary acquaintance.

When they arrived at their destination carriages were found to be in waiting to take the party to Hazeldean, the residence of Mr. Wellington, who was to entertain the company for the ensuing week.

A drive of a mile brought them to the fine estate, where an imposing mansion stood in the middle of a beautiful park. The interior of the dwelling was in perfect keeping with its exterior—luxury and beauty prevailed on every hand, and it was really an ideal place in which to entertain a numerous company.

The wide, mammoth hall ran the whole length of the house, while numerous rooms opened into it, with wide doors sliding upward, so that almost the whole of the lower floor could be made into one grand room. The floors were of hard wood, and polished to the last degree of brightness, and were, as Kitty McKenzie merrily remarked, while she executed a gay pirouette on entering, "just capital for dancing."

The upper stories were equally spacious, and luxuriously furnished—it really seemed like a great hotel, only far more home-like and comfortable.

The guests were soon assigned to their apartments, and Mona was gratified to find that, instead of being consigned to some remote corner of the great house, she had a cozy room opening directly into the one occupied by Mrs. Montague.



CHAPTER XV.

A GAY COMPANY AT HAZELDEAN.

The week that followed was one never to be forgotten. Such feasting and merry-making, such excursions, and card parties, and dancing parties Mona had never witnessed.

She had read of such scenes occurring in the great manor-houses of England, and had often thought that she should like to witness something of the kind; but she did not imagine that Americans had yet attained the art of displaying such magnificent hospitality. It was a carnival, indeed, from the evening of their arrival until the morning of their departure.

It was the month of February, there was no snow on the ground, and the weather was very mild and more like early spring, than winter, so that every morning there was planned an excursion of some kind—either a drive or a canter on horseback to different points of interest in that picturesque section, which everybody appeared to enjoy as well as if all nature had been at the height of its glory in midsummer.

Mona, of course, was never invited to join these excursions; she was regarded as nothing but a seamstress or a maid, and most of the company would have scorned the idea of thus associating with her upon equal terms.

Her heart often swelled with bitter pain as she watched a gay cavalcade ride away through the park, for she dearly loved horseback riding, and she well knew that six months previous she would have been most cordially welcomed by every member of that merry company.

She wondered what had become of her pretty saddle-horse, Jet, and her uncle's proud steed, Banquo, and sighed regretfully as she reviewed the happy past, when they four—for the horses had seemed almost human—had roamed over the country together. She sometimes even longed to be back in New York among her piles of sewing, for she had not enough to do now to occupy her time, and it often hung heavily on her hands, thus allowing painful memories to depress her.

The third morning after their arrival, just as a gay party was on the point of starting off, Mona, being at liberty, thought she would slip down to the library and try to find an entertaining book to pass away the long hours before lunch.

She was half-way down stairs, when Kitty McKenzie came running breathlessly back, looking flushed and exceedingly disappointed over something.

"Oh, dear!" she cried, as she was passing Mona; "I tripped in my riding-habit, and have ripped the facing so badly that I must change it and go in the carriage with mamma. It is too bad, for I had the loveliest pony to ride."

"Have you ripped it too badly to have it repaired?" Mona asked, sorry to have the gay girl deprived of her coveted pleasure.

"Yes, for it takes me forever to mend anything. I am a wretched bungler with my needle," she confessed, with engaging frankness, but with a conscious blush.

"Let me see it," and Mona stooped to examine the rip. "This is not so bad, after all," she continued, cheerfully. "Just come to my room, and I will catch it up for you; I can do it in less time than it would take to change your dress."

"Can you? Oh, that will be so good of you!" and, delighted that she was not to be deprived of her ride, Miss Kitty followed Mona, with a bright face and an eager step.

Five minutes sufficed for our young seamstress to make the garment wearable, and then she told Miss McKenzie that if she would bring the habit to her upon her return, she would repair it more thoroughly.

The kind-hearted girl was very grateful.

"How kind you are to do it!" she cried, as Mona smoothed the heavy folds into place, then, with a sudden impulse and a sympathetic look into the fair face of the seamstress, she added: "What a pity it is that you have to stay here all by yourself, while the rest of us are having such delightful times! Why cannot you come with us, Miss Richards? I will make mamma let you go with her—there is an extra seat in that carriage."

"Thank you; you are very good to suggest it, Miss McKenzie, but I cannot go," Mona answered, with a flush, but touched that the girl should wish her to share her pleasures.

"I am sure you would enjoy it, for you are young, and it is too bad to be obliged to stay indoors this delightful weather, and I imagine, if the truth were known, you could be as gay as anybody, while truly," with an arch, winsome glance, "I believe you are the prettiest girl here. Do you know how to dance?"

"Yes."

"Then I think I can manage it—if you would like it, Miss Richards—to have you join the german this evening; will you?"

"You are very thoughtful, Miss McKenzie," Mona replied, appreciatively, "but I should feel out of place, even if others were as kindly disposed as yourself."

"You have had trouble—you have lost friends," Miss Kitty remarked, glancing at her black dress.

"Yes—all that I had in the world," Mona returned, with a quivering lip and a sigh that was almost a sob; for the sweet girl's kindly interest moved her deeply.

"I am sorry," said her companion, simply, but sincerely. Then she continued, with heartiness: "But let me count myself your friend after this—will you? I think you are very nice, and I believe it would be very easy to love you—you poor, lonely child!" and before Mona realized her intention, she had stooped and kissed her softly on the cheek.

She did not give her any opportunity to reply, but tripped away, flushing over her own impulsive familiarity.

She looked back over her shoulder as she reached the door and added:

"Good-by, Miss Richards; remember, you and I are to be friends; and thank you ever so much for mending my dress."

She was gone before Mona could answer, even to tell her that she was very welcome, but her heart warmed toward the bright, genial maiden, and she stood listening, with a smile on her lips, to the sound of her little feet pattering down the stairs, and the next moment she caught her merry laugh as some one swung her lightly into her saddle.

Then Mona went down to the library, where she selected a book, and then, finding the room empty, she decided to remain where she was for a while.

Rolling a great easy-chair into a deep bay-window, she nestled, with a feeling of pleasure, in its cozy depths, and was soon deeply absorbed in the contents of her book.

She must have been reading half an hour when a slight sound in another portion of the room startled her. Turning to see what had caused it, she saw Louis Hamblin standing between the parted portieres of an archway, and gazing upon her, a smile of triumph on his handsome face.

Mona sprang from her chair, looking the surprise she felt, for she did not suppose he was in the house.

"Do not rise, Miss Richards," said the young man, as he came forward. "It is really a great pleasure to find you here, but I pray that you will not allow me to disturb you."

"I thought you had gone with the party," the young girl said, hardly knowing how to reply to him, but deeply annoyed by his presence.

"No; I had a raging toothache all night, so had to make up my rest this morning and have but just eaten breakfast. But sit down, Miss Richards; everybody has gone off and left me behind; I am lonely, and nothing would suit me better than a social little chat with yourself," he concluded, with obnoxious familiarity.

Mona drew her graceful form to its full height, while her red lips curled scornfully.

"Thank you, but it might be considered in bad taste for one in Mr. Hamblin's position to be found chatting socially with his aunt's seamstress, whom he is not supposed to know," she said, a note of sarcasm in her tone.

The young man laughed out lightly.

"Ah! you resent it because I did not recognize you the day we came to Hazeldean," he returned; "but you will forgive me, I know, when I tell you that I avoided betraying the fact of our previous acquaintance simply for your own good. I feared it might make you conspicuous if I saluted you, as I wished to do, and my aunt is very particular about the proprieties of life."

Mona smiled proudly. She failed to perceive how a courteous recognition could have made her conspicuous or violated in any way the most rigid laws of etiquette.

"In that case we will continue to observe the proprieties of life upon all occasions," she dryly remarked.

He read her thoughts, and was keenly stung by her words.

"Forgive me," he said, with an assumption of regret and humility, thinking thus the better to gain his end; "had I realized that you would have been so wounded I should have acted very differently. I assure you I will never offend you in the same way again."

"Pray do not be troubled," Mona coldly retorted. "I had no thought of resenting anything which you might consider proper to do. If I thought of the matter at all, it was only in connection with the generally accepted principles of courtesy and good-breeding."

Mr. Hamblin flushed hotly at this keen shaft, but he ignored it, and changed the subject.

"I am sorry to have interrupted you in your reading, Miss Richards. What have you that is interesting?"

"Victor Hugo's 'Les Miserables,'" Mona briefly replied.

"Have you?" the young man eagerly demanded, "I was searching for that book only yesterday. May I look at it one moment? McArthur and I had quite a discussion upon a point regarding Father Madelaine, and we were unable to settle it because we could not find the book."

Mona quietly passed the volume to him; but a blank look overspread his face as he took it.

"Why, it is the original!" he exclaimed, "and I do not read French readily. Are you familiar with it?"

"Oh, yes," and Mona smiled slightly.

She had been accounted the finest French scholar in her class.

Mr. Hamblin regarded her wonderingly.

"Where did you learn French to be able to read it at sight?" he inquired.

"At school."

"But—I thought—" he began, and stopped confused.

"You thought that a common seamstress must necessarily be ignorant, as well as poor," Mona supplemented: "that she would not be likely to have opportunities or ambition for self-improvement. Well, Mr. Hamblin, perhaps some girls in such a position would not, but I honestly believe that there is many a poor girl, who has had to make her own way in life, who is better educated than many of the so-called society belles of to-day."

"I believe it, too, if you are a specimen," her companion returned, as he gazed admiringly into Mona's flushed and animated face.

"At any rate," he added, "you are far more beautiful than the majority of society girls."

"Mr. Hamblin will please reserve his compliments for ears more eager for and more accustomed to them," Mona retorted, with a frown of annoyance.

"Why are you so proud and scornful toward me, Miss Richards?" he appealingly asked. "Can you not see that my admiration for you is genuine—that I really desire to be your friend? And why have you avoided me so persistently of late—why have you rejected my flowers?"

"Because," Mona frankly answered, and meeting his glance squarely, "I know, and you know, that it is not proper for you to offer, nor for me to accept, such attentions, even if I desired them."

"I am my own master; you are your own mistress, if, as you say, you are alone in the world; consequently, such a matter lies between ourselves, without regard to what others might consider as 'proper,' And I may as well make an open confession first as last," he went on, eagerly, and bending nearer to her, with a flushed face. "Ruth, my beautiful Ruth, I love you—I began to love you that morning when we met on the steps before our own door, and every day has only increased my affection for you."

A startled look swept over Mona's face, which had now grown very pale. She had not had a suspicion that she was destined to hear such a declaration as this; it had taken her wholly unawares, and for a moment she was speechless.

But she soon recovered herself.

"Stop!" she haughtily cried "you have no right to use such language to me; you would not presume—you would not dare to do so upon so brief an acquaintance, if I stood upon an equal footing with you, socially. It is only because I am poor and unprotected—because you simply wish to amuse yourself for a time. You would not dare to repeat in the presence of Mrs. Montague what you have just said to me. Now let me pass, if you please, and never presume to address me again as you have to-day."

The indignant girl looked like some beautiful princess as she stood before him and thus resented the insult he had offered her.

Her slight form was held proudly erect, her small head was uplifted with an air of scorn, her eyes blazed forth angry contempt as they met his, while her whole bearing indicated a conscious superiority which both humiliated and stung her would-be suitor.

She had never appeared so beautiful to him before. Her face was as pure as a pearl; her glossy hair, falling loosely away from her white forehead, was simply coiled at the back of her small head, thus revealing its symmetrical proportions to the best advantages. Her great brown eyes glowed and scintillated, her nostrils dilated, her lips quivered with outraged pride and delicacy.

Her dress of dead black fell in soft, clinging folds about her slender form, making her seem taller than she really was, while one hand had been raised to enforce the commands which she had laid upon him.

He thought her the fairest vision he had ever seen, in spite of her indignation against him, and if she had sought to fascinate him—to weave the spell of her witchery more effectually about him, she could have taken no surer way to do so.

He could not fail to admire her spirit—it but served to glorify her in his sight, and made him more eager than before to conquer her.

"Nay, do not leave me thus—do not be so bitter against me, my peerless Ruth," he pleaded. "Perhaps I have been premature in my avowal, but I beg that you will not despise me on that account. Do not judge me so harshly. Lay my impatience rather to my eagerness to win you. I would do anything in the world to make you love me, and now, I fear, I have only been driving you farther from me. I love you, honestly and sincerely, my beautiful Ruth, and I would not only dare to confess it to my aunt, but proclaim it before the world, if that would serve to prove it to you. Ah! teach me how to woo you, my darling; give me but a crumb of hope upon which to feed, and I will try to be satisfied until you can learn to have more confidence in me."

He reached forth his arms as if he would have infolded her; and Mona, who for the moment had been rendered spell-bound by the swift rush of burning words that he had poured forth, seemed suddenly electrified by the act.

She felt both insulted and humiliated by this premature avowal of a love that had not received the slightest encouragement from her, and she recoiled from him with a gesture of contempt.

"I wonder how you have dared to say this to me," she cried, in a voice that quivered with indignation, "when in my very presence you have shown another attentions such as a man has a right to bestow only upon the woman whom he intends to marry. But for the respect I owe myself and my sex, I would like to brand you with a mark that would betray your disloyalty to the world, and make Miss McKenzie despise you as I do; being only a weak woman, however, I must content myself with simply manifesting my scorn, and by telling you to go!" and she pointed authoritatively toward the door with one white taper finger.

A hot, crimson flush dyed the young man's white face with a sense of shame, such as he had never before experienced in the presence of any one, while the purple veins stood out in ridges upon his forehead.

He was completely cowed before her. Conscious himself of the insincerity and unworthiness of his declaration, he knew that she also had read him like an open book, and the knowledge made him fearfully angry; while to be foiled in his purpose and browbeaten by this girl, whom he imagined to be only what she seemed, was more than his indomitable spirit could tamely submit to.

"A love like mine is not to be despised, and you shall yet find it so," he muttered between his tightly shut teeth.

Mona would not deign him a reply, but standing in the same attitude, she again motioned him to go.

Unable longer to endure the unflinching gaze of her clear, scornful eyes, he shrank back through the portieres, which instantly fell into place again, and Mona, with a smile of disdain curving her red lips, went back to her seat by the window.

But all enjoyment in her book was gone; she was much excited, for she had been greatly shaken by the interview and made to feel her position as she never yet had done; and after sitting a few moments gazing sadly out of the window she again went up to her own room.



CHAPTER XVI.

MONA LEARNS SOMETHING OF RAY.

That same evening as Mona was passing up stairs from the laundry, whither she had been to press out the ruffles of a dress, which Mrs. Montague wished to wear at the german a few hours later, she heard the hall-bell ring a resounding peal.

She hastened on, for she did not wish to be observed by strangers, but as she reached the upper landing, she caught some hearty words of welcome from Mr. Wellington, the host, and knew that another guest had arrived.

But she suddenly stopped short, and the color receded from her cheeks, while her heart beat with quick, heavy throbs as she heard the name of Palmer pronounced.

"Can it be possible that Ray Palmer is the newcomer?" she asked herself.

She leaned over the banister, curiosity and an eager longing prompting her to ascertain if he were the guest.

But no, it was not Ray.

She saw instead an elderly gentleman, of benevolent and genial appearance, who seemed to be a valued friend of the family, judging from the enthusiastic greeting which his host accorded him.

"Well, well, Palmer, you are rather late in the week, but none the less welcome on that account," remarked Mr. Wellington. "We have been having gay times, and I have only needed your presence to make my enjoyment complete. But where is that precious son of yours? How is it that Raymond did not come with you?"

Mona held her breath at this.

The question had told her that the new arrival was Ray's father, and that the young man had also been invited to join the gay company that was sojourning beneath the hospitable roof.

She leaned farther over the railing that she might not fail to catch Mr. Palmer's reply.

"Oh," answered that gentleman, as he removed his overcoat and gloves, "Ray is not yet quite as strong as we could wish, although he calls himself well, and he feels hardly equal to much dissipation as yet. Besides, he is rather depressed just now."

"Over the affair of the diamonds, I suppose?" Mr. Wellington observed.

"Yes, and—some other matter that troubles him."

"I am very sorry. I was depending upon him to help amuse some of our fair young guests," said his host. Then he added, with considerable interest: "Any new developments regarding that remarkable robbery?"

"No; and I do not imagine there ever will be," Mr. Palmer gravely returned.

"Then you have given up all hope of ever recovering them?"

"Well, almost, though I have a detective on the lookout yet, and he thinks if he can get track of the thief in this case, she will prove to be the very woman that he has been searching for during the last three years. He imagines that she is the same one who was concerned in a bold swindle in Chicago about that time."

"Well, I sincerely hope that he will be successful in finding her; such wickedness should not be allowed to prosper," said Mr. Wellington. "I am really sorry about Ray, though—he is such capital company, and there are six or eight wonderfully pretty girls here who will be deeply disappointed when they learn that he is not coming at all."

The two gentlemen passed into the drawing-room just then, and Mona heard nothing more.

She deeply sighed, and continued to stand there for some moments lost in thought.

She could not really make up her mind whether she was more disappointed than rejoiced over Ray's failure to meet this engagement.

It would have been very pleasant to see him again, but it would also have been very humiliating to have him find her there in the capacity of a servant, and ignore her on this account, as Louis Hamblin had done. She still felt most keenly his apparent neglect of her during her troubles, and of course, being entirely ignorant of what had occurred, she attributed it to the most unworthy motives, which, however, did not help to reconcile her to the loss of his friendship.

She gathered from what Mr. Palmer had said about his not being quite strong yet that Ray had been ill, and she wondered, too, what he had meant by his being depressed on account of some other matter that was troubling him.

She had also learned something new about the robbery, of which she had only had a faint hint from the little item which she had read in the paper on the day she went to Mrs. Montague's. She gleaned now that Ray had in some way been responsible for the loss—or, at least felt himself to be so to some extent.

She wished that she could have heard more about him, and she was conscious of a deeper sense of loneliness and friendliness, from this little rift in the cloud that had shut her out of the world where once she had been so happy.

Another sigh escaped her as she slowly turned to go on to her room and almost unconsciously she cried out, with a little sob of pain and longing:

"Oh, Ray, Ray!"

"Aha!"

The ejaculation startled the young girl beyond measure. She did not dream that there was any one near her. She had been so absorbed in observing Mr. Palmer and listening to what had occurred in the lower hall, and in her own sad thoughts, that she was unconscious that any one had stolen up on her unawares, and had also been a witness to the interview between Mr. Palmer and Mr. Wellington, until this exclamation made her look up. She found herself again face to face with Louis Hamblin.

"Aha!" he repeated, in a tone of triumph, but with a frown upon his brow; "that explains why my suit was so disdained this morning! So you know and—love Mr. Raymond Palmer! My pretty Ruth, pray tell me how this young Apollo managed to inspire the princess of sewing-girls with such tender sentiments, that I may profit by his successful method."

"Let me pass!" Mona commanded, as, straight as a young palm, she confronted the insolent fellow with blazing cheeks and flashing eyes.

"It makes you wonderfully pretty to get angry," he returned, with a gleeful chuckle; "but I am not going to let you pass until you tell me when and where you made young Palmer's acquaintance," and he continued to stand directly in her path.

"Do you imagine that you can compel me to say anything?" Mona burst forth, with stinging contempt, her patience all gone. "Let this be the last time that you ever waylay or persecute me with your attentions, for, I give you fair warning, a repetition of such conduct on your part will send me straight to Mrs. Montague with a full report of it."

The young man looked decidedly crestfallen at this spirited threat.

There was but one person in the world of whom he stood in awe, and that was his aunt, Margaret Montague.

He well knew that it would not be for his interest to offend her, and, of all things, he would dread most a revelation of what had occurred in the library that morning, notwithstanding he had affirmed to Mona that he was willing to proclaim his affection before her and the whole world.

Besides, if it should come to the ears of Kitty McKenzie, his prospects of a marriage with that pretty and wealthy young lady would be blighted, and no end of trouble would follow, for Mrs. Montague had determined to effect a union between them, and if he should go contrary to her wishes, she could make it very uncomfortable for him pecuniarily.

Still, he was deeply smitten with the beautiful young seamstress, and was rapidly becoming more so every time he met her.

He had promised himself the pleasure of a secret flirtation with her, while at the same time he intended to continue his attentions to Miss McKenzie in public, and he did not like to be balked in his purpose.

He saw that he could never intimidate her into any concessions; she was far too high-spirited and straightforward; so he must adopt other measures if he would win.

"Certainly you shall pass, if you wish," he said, respectfully, as he stepped aside; "but please do not be quite so unkind; and, by the way, can you tell me what the old codger down below meant by his son being upset about the diamonds?"

He knew well enough, for of course he had seen the accounts of the affair in the papers; but he had an object in wishing to find out how much Mona knew.

"No, I cannot," she coldly replied, as, with uplifted head and haughty bearing, she passed him and entered Mrs. Montague's room.

While this incident was occurring in the hall of the second story, Mr. Amos Palmer was being introduced to the company below.

His advent caused quite a flutter of excitement among the young ladies; for most of them were acquainted with Ray, who for nearly two years had been a great favorite in society, and they had been led to expect that he was to join their company at Hazeldean.

Great disappointment was expressed when they learned that he was not likely to put in an appearance at all, and Mr. Palmer began to feel sorry that he had not insisted upon having his son come with him.

Mr. Wellington was full of wit and pleasantry, and made merry, as he went around the room with his friend, to introduce the strangers to him.

As they came to Mrs. Montague, he was somewhat surprised when the lady greeted Mr. Palmer with great cordiality.

"I have already the pleasure of Mr. Palmer's acquaintance," she said, with one of her most alluring smiles, as she extended her hand to him, and forthwith she entered into conversation with him, thus effectually chaining him to her side.

He seemed only too well pleased to linger there—he was, in fact, a willing captive to her wiles, a circumstance which the bright eyes of the younger portion of the company did not fail to observe and to comment upon, with something of amusement, and not a little of the match-making spirit of their own mammas.

"Girls!" exclaimed Alice Farwell, a gay, dashing beauty of twenty, to a group of friends whom she had coaxed into a corner, "do you know that a romance has begun here this evening?—a romance that will not be long in culminating in matrimony? Oh! don't go to pluming your feathers," she continued, as there was a general flutter, "for we young Americans will not figure in the story at all, though we may possibly be invited to the wedding. Oh, if it should prove to be the only match of the season!" and with a long-drawn sigh, she glanced mischievously across the room, toward the recent arrival, who was apparently oblivious of all, save the attractions of the charming Mrs. Montague.

Talk of match-making mammas!

This bevy of young girls became so engrossed in watching the progress of the romance which was then being enacted in their presence, that they forgot to flirt themselves, and took pains to help it on in every possible way.

"It will be just the nicest match in the world," said Edith Brown, delightfully. "Mr. Palmer is a fine-looking old gentleman, and Mrs. Montague, though she seems a great deal younger, will make him a lovely wife."

"It will be so suitable, too, for they are both rich, and stand high in society," whispered a third, with an eye to worldly prosperity.

"And she can have all the diamonds she wants," chimed in a little miss of sixteen, "for he is a diamond merchant, you know."

This remark caused a general laugh, and then the conversation turned upon the recent robbery, which was discussed at some length.

"Who would have thought of decoying Ray Palmer into Doctor Wesselhoff's retreat?" exclaimed Alice Farwell. "It was a very daring thing to do. By the way, I wonder what the reason is young Palmer did not come with his father? I can't quite believe he isn't well enough, for I saw him only the day before we left New York, and he was walking down Broadway with as much energy as any one, only he looked a trifle pale and anxious."

"I wish he would come up for the grand hop on next Monday," said Edith Brown. "He is capital company, and a delightful partner. I am going to coax Mr. Palmer to send for him. Come, girls, he has monopolized our pretty widow long enough; suppose we break up the conference and put in our petition."

The merry maidens were nothing loath to have another handsome escort added to their number, and, headed by the audacious Edith, they went in a body to make their request of Mr. Palmer.

"Well, it is too bad to have Ray miss all this," he said, smilingly, when they allowed him an opportunity to reply. "I believe it would do him good to come, and he could not help enjoying himself here," he added, as his genial eyes rested on the bright faces before him. "I believe I will telegraph him in the morning."

The fair petitioners were satisfied with their success, and, dinner being announced just then, the subject was dropped for the time.

After dinner there was a progressive whist party for an hour, at the end of which there was considerable fun occasioned by the awarding of the prizes, and after that everybody was ready for the german.

But great disappointment was expressed when they found that there was one lady lacking to enable them all to participate in the dance.

"What shall we do?—no one wants to sit and look on—it is very stupid, and the rest of us wouldn't enjoy it, either, to have any wallflowers about," Kitty McKenzie regretfully remarked. "Oh! Mrs. Montague," she added, as if the idea had just occurred to her, "there is your pretty seamstress; may she not come, just for this once?"

Mrs. Montague hesitated.

"Please," persisted the generous-hearted Kitty; "she is very nice and lady-like; I am sure no one could object to her, and I know she would enjoy it."

Two or three others seconded the proposal, and the lady then gave her consent, though with evident reluctance.

Miss Kitty, all elated with the success of her project, and never dreaming that Mona would not enjoy it, ran away to bring her down.

She found her in her own room reading a recent magazine.

"Come," she said, with gleaming eyes, "you are to join us in the german. I have Mrs. Montague's permission, and we are all waiting for you."

"I thank you very much Miss McKenzie," Mona responded, flushing, "but I do not believe I will go down."

"Oh, do; we need just one more lady, and some of the gentlemen will have to sit it out if you do not. Miss Nellie Wellington has to play for us, or she would dance, so please come," Miss Kitty urged, looking disappointed enough over Mona's unexpected refusal.

Mona shrank from joining the dancers, or from mingling with the company, for several reasons.

She had no heart for dancing, so soon after her uncle's death; she disliked to go among people who would regard her as an inferior, and only tolerate her presence because she would help to "fill out," while last, but not least, she wished to keep out of Louis Hamblin's way.

But she did not like to appear disobliging or unappreciative of Miss McKenzie's kindness, and a bright idea suddenly occurred to her.

"I really do not care to dance, Miss McKenzie, although it is very thoughtful of you to invite me; but if it will be agreeable to the company, I will take Miss Wellington's place at the piano, and she can make up the desired number."

"Oh, can you play?" cried Kitty, both astonished and delighted. "That will help us out, and I am sure it is very nice of you to offer, for I think it is awfully stupid to play for dancing. Come, then, and I know everybody will be surprised as well as pleased."

And winding her arm about the slender waist of the fair seamstress, they went down stairs together, Miss McKenzie chatting away as sociably as if they had always been friends and equals.

Mrs. Montague lifted her eyebrows with well-bred astonishment when the young lady informed the company that Miss Richards preferred to preside at the piano, and a number of others appealed to share her surprise, and looked somewhat skeptical, also.

They were more amazed still when she modestly took her seat and began her duties, for Mona was perfectly at home in music, and soon made the room ring with inspiring melody for the eager dancers.

"Who is that beautiful and talented girl?" Amos Palmer asked of his host, when the young people were tired of dancing, and Mona quietly withdrew from the room.

"Her name is Ruth Richards, I believe," Mr. Wellington replied.

"You 'believe!' Isn't she a guest here?" inquired Mr. Palmer, with surprise.

"No; she is simply a maid in the employ of Mrs. Montague."

"Well, it is a great pity."

"What is a great pity?"

"That such a lovely young lady should have to serve any one in that capacity; she is beautiful and talented enough to fill any position."

And this was Amos Palmer's opinion regarding Ray's unknown lady-love.



CHAPTER XVII.

MRS. MONTAGUE QUESTIONS MONA.

"Where did you learn to play the piano, Ruth?" Mrs. Montague inquired the next morning, while Mona was engaged in assisting her to dress, and she turned a searching glance upon her as she put the question.

To conceal the flush that mounted to her brow, Mona stooped to pick up a pin.

It had not occurred to her, when she offered to play for the dancing the previous evening, that such proficiency in music would be regarded as something very unusual in a sewing-girl, and might occasion remark.

Her only object had been to oblige Kitty McKenzie and avoid dancing with the guests.

"I had a relative who gave me lessons for a while," she said, in reply to Mrs. Montague's query.

"For a while!" repeated that lady, who had not been unobservant of the flush. "You finger the piano as if you had been accustomed to diligent practice all your life, and you must have had the best of instruction, too."

"I am very fond of music, and it was never any task to me to practice," Mona remarked. Then she added, to change the topic: "Shall I baste this ruffle in the full width, or shall I set it down a trifle?"

Mrs. Montague smiled at the tact of her pretty companion, in thus attempting to draw her attention to her own affairs.

A good many things had convinced her of late that her seamstress had not been reared in poverty, and certain suspicions, that had startled her when she first saw her, were beginning to force themselves again upon her.

"You can set it down a trifle," she replied; then she asked, persistently returning to the previous question: "Why do you not give music lessons, since you play so well, instead of sewing for your living? I should suppose it would be a much more congenial occupation."

"There are so many music teachers, and one needs a reputation in order to obtain pupils; besides, people would doubtless regard me as too young to have had much experience in teaching. There, I have finished this—is there anything else I can do for you?" and Mona laid the dress she had been at work upon on a chair, and stood awaiting further orders.