"Yes; the buckle on this slipper needs to be more securely fastened. It is true that there are legions of music teachers. Was this relative of yours a teacher?"

"Oh, no; he simply bore the expense of my instruction."

"I suppose he cannot be living, or you would not be sewing for me," Mrs. Montague remarked, with another searching glance.

"No," was the brief reply, and hot tears rushed to Mona's eyes, blinding her so that she could hardly see where to put her needle.

She then made some remark to the effect that she needed some stronger silk, and left the room to hide the grief which she found so hard to control.

"Aha! this relative must be the friend for whom she is in mourning—he cannot have been dead very long, for the girl is unable to speak of him without tears," muttered Mrs. Montague, thoughtfully, a heavy frown settling on her brow. "There is some mystery about her which I am bound to ferret out; she is exceedingly reticent about herself—I wonder if my suspicions can be correct?" she continued, her face settling into hard, revengeful lines. "She certainly looks enough like that girl to be her child. If I were sure, I would not spare her; I would crush her, for the hate that I bore her mother, notwithstanding she is so useful to me. Ha, ha!" and the laugh was exceedingly bitter, "it would seem like the irony of fate to have her child thrown thus into my power. But if she is Mona Montague why does she call herself Ruth Richards? what can be her object? Can it be possible," she added, with a startled look, "that she has been told her history, and she has engaged herself to me with the purpose of trying to obtain the proofs of it? Is she deep enough for that? or has she been advised to adopt such a course? She seems to be very frank and innocent, intent only upon doing her work well and pleasing me. Yet, if she should get hold of any of those proofs, she could make a great deal of trouble for me. I believe I shall have to destroy them, although I always feel as if a ghost were haunting me whenever I touch them. I shall never be satisfied until I learn Ruth's history. I'll attack her about the Palmers; if she is Mona Montague—the girl that Ray Palmer loves—she certainly will betray herself if I take her unawares; although she did not appear to know Mr. Palmer, last evening."

Mona returned at this moment, and Mrs. Montague's musings were cut short.

The young girl had recovered her self-control, and was as calm and collected as usual; even more so, for she had told herself that she must be more on her guard or she would betray her identity.

Mrs. Montague appeared to have forgotten all about their recent conversation, and chatted sociably about various topics for a while. But suddenly she asked:

"Did you observe the new arrival last night, Ruth?"

"Do you mean that portly gentleman, who is slightly bald, and with whom you went out for refreshments?" Mona inquired, lifting a frank, inquiring look to her companion, though her heart beat fast at this reference to Ray's father.

"Yes; he is very fine-looking, don't you think so?"

"Perhaps so—rather," replied Mona, reflectively.

"That is 'rather' doubtful praise, I am afraid," observed Mrs. Montague, with a light laugh. "I think he is a very handsome old gentleman, and he is certainly a decidedly entertaining companion. You know who he is, I suppose."

"I do not think that I heard anybody address him by name while I was in the drawing-room; of course; I was not introduced to any one," Mona evasively answered.

"His name is Palmer," Mrs. Montague remarked, as she bent a searching look upon the young girl.

But Mona had herself well in hand now, and she made no sign that the name was a familiar one to her.

"He has a son who is strikingly good looking, too," Mrs. Montague continued. "I met them both at a reception in New York a little while ago, and was greatly attracted to them, though just now the young man is rather unhappy—in fact, he is wearing the willow for some girl whom he imagines he loves."

Mrs. Montague paused to note the effect of this conversation, but Mona had finished fastening the buckle on the slipper, and quietly taken up some other work, though her pulses were beating like trip-hammers.

"It seems," the woman resumed, her keen eyes never leaving the fair face opposite to her, "that he has long been very fond of a girl whose surname is the same as mine—a Miss Mona Montague. She was a niece of that wealthy Mr. Dinsmore, who died so suddenly in New York a short time ago."

It seemed to Mona that her heart must leap from her bosom as she listened to this reference to herself; but, with every appearance of perfect composure, she measured off some ribbon that she was making into bows, and severed it with a sharp clip of her scissors.

"Perhaps you do not know whom I mean," said Mrs. Montague, and paused, determined to make the girl speak.

"Oh, yes, I have heard of him, and I remember reading the notice of his death in a paper," Mona compelled herself to say, without betraying anything of the pain which smote her heart in recurring thus to her great loss.

Mrs. Montague frowned.

She was not progressing as well as she could have wished in her "pumping" operation; but she meant to probe the matter as far as she dared.

"Well," she went on, "this niece was supposed by everybody to be Mr. Dinsmore's heiress; but a discarded wife suddenly made her appearance, after his death, and claimed the whole of his property, and the girl was left without a penny. She must have been terribly cut up about it, for she suddenly disappeared, and cannot be found, and it is this that has so upset young Palmer. He had not committed himself, his father informed me, but was just on the point of declaring his love when Mr. Dinsmore died; and the girl, evidently crushed by her loss, has hidden herself so securely that no one can find her."

It was fortunate for Mona that her recent troubles had taught her something of self-control, or she must have betrayed herself at this point.

She realized that Mrs. Montague must have a purpose in relating all this to her, and feared it was to verify some suspicion regarding herself.

She now believed that the woman must know all her mother's history, and certain facts regarding her own birth, which she felt that Mr. Dinsmore had, for some reason, withheld from her. This conviction had grown upon her ever since she had been a member of her family, and she hoped, by some means, if she remained long enough with her, to learn the truth. Still she feared that if Mrs. Montague should discover that she was her husband's daughter she might be so prejudiced against her she would at once dismiss her from her employ, and she would then lose her only chance to solve the questions that puzzled her. But she found it very hard to conceal the great and sudden joy that went thrilling through her as she listened to these facts regarding Ray Palmer's affection for and his loyalty to her.

He had not been unworthy and faithless, as she had imagined; there had been some good reason why he had not come to her during the early days of her trouble. He might have been called suddenly away from New York on business and not been able to return until her home was broken up; and now he was grieving—"wearing the willow," as Mrs. Montague expressed it—because he could not find her. He loved her! he had been upon the point of telling her so, and this blissful knowledge made the world seem suddenly bright again to the hitherto depressed and grieving girl.

But it would never do to betray anything of this, for then Mrs. Montague would know at once that she was Mona Montague; so she made no sign that she was any more interested in this little romance regarding Ray Palmer's love, than she would have been in that of any stranger. She even forced herself to ignore him altogether, and ask, in a matter-of-fact way:

"Is it not strange, if Mr. Dinsmore had a wife living, that he did not make some provision for his niece, by will?"

"The girl isn't Mona Montague after all, or she never would have asked such a question with that innocent air," said Mrs. Montague to herself, with some disappointment; "the strange resemblance must be only a coincidence, striking though it is. But I would really like to know where Walter Dinsmore's niece is. I feel as if I had an enemy in ambush all the time, for she would have it in her power to do me a great deal of harm if she could prove her identity. I am half sorry that Ruth doesn't prove to be she, for having her here, under my eye, I could manage her capitally."

"Why, the papers discussed all that at the time," she remarked aloud, with some surprise. "There was considerable excitement over the affair, and sympathy was very strong for the niece. Didn't you read about it?"

"No, I was very much engaged just then, and I did not read any account of it. There, these bows are ready, and I will sew them to the dress," Mona concluded, rising to get the garment, but trembling with nervous excitement in every limb.

"Ah!" she added, glancing at her fingers, three of which were stained with blood. "I have pricked myself with my needle; I hope I have not soiled the ribbon. No, fortunately, I have not," as she carefully examined it, "but I will step into the bath-room to wash my hands. I will not be long," and she immediately left the room again. She had purposely run the needle into her delicate flesh to obtain this respite, for she felt as if she could no longer endure the trying conversation.

"Oh, how she has tortured me!" she sobbed, as she swung the door to after her, and dashed from her eyes the tears which she could no longer restrain. "I could not bear it another moment, and I must not give way, even now, or she will see that I am unnerved, but I cannot be wholly wretched now that I know that Ray loves me!"

A vivid blush mounted to her brow as she whispered the sweet words, and she dashed the cold water over her burning cheeks to cool them.

"Ah!" she continued; "I judged him wrongfully, and I am sorry. It will be all right if we can but meet again. It must be true that he loved me; he must have confessed it, or his father would not have told Mrs. Montague so."

She hastily dried her face, and hands, then composing herself, returned to Mrs. Montague's room to find her with her dress on and looking very fair and lovely in the delicately tinted blue cashmere, with the soft ruching in the neck and sleeves and the shining satin bows at her waist.

The woman glanced sharply at Mona as she entered, but, for all that she could see, the sweet face was as serene as if she were intent only upon her duties as waiting-maid, instead of thrilling with joy over the knowledge of being beloved by one whom, until that hour, she had believed lost to her.

"I will submit her to one more test, and if she can stand it I shall be satisfied," she said to herself, as she fastened a beautiful pin at her throat, and then turned smilingly to Mona, but with the most innocent air in the world.

"Am I all right, Ruth? Is the dress becoming?" she asked.

"Exceedingly," Mona returned; "the color is just suited to you."

"Thank you, I wonder if Mr. Palmer will also think so. Do you know," with a conscious laugh and forced blush, but with a covert glance at the girl, "I am becoming very much interested in that gentleman. I like the son, too, but chiefly for his father's sake. By the way, young Mr. Palmer is to be here for the ball on Monday evening; at least his father is going to telegraph him to come."

"Is he?" said Mona, absently, while she appeared to be engrossed with something which she had suddenly discovered about the new morning robe. But the statement that Ray was coming to Hazeldean had given her an inward start that made every nerve in her body bound as if an electric current had been applied to them. "This skirt does not seem to hang just right," she added, dropping upon her knees, as if to ascertain the cause. "Ah! it was only caught up—it is all right now."

She smoothed the folds into place and arose, while, the breakfast-bell ringing at that moment, Mrs. Montague passed from the room, very nearly if not quite satisfied that Ruth Richards was an entirely different person from Mona Montague.

Poor over-wrought Mona, however, fled into her own chamber, and locked the door the moment she was alone.

She sank into the nearest chair, buried her face in her hands, and fell to sobbing nervously.

"How can I bear it?" she murmured. "It is perfectly dreadful to have to live such a life of deception. I never would have been guilty of it if I had not been caught just as I was; but I could not give her my real name, for she would have known at once who I am; and I do so want to find out just why my father deserted my mother, and what there was between him and Uncle Walter that was so terrible. Perhaps I never shall, but I mean to stay with her for a while and try. She is a strange woman," the young girl went on, musingly. "Sometimes I think she is kind and good, then again she seems like a designing and unprincipled person. Can it be possible that she is contemplating an alliance with Mr. Palmer? She certainly received his attentions last evening with every appearance of pleasure, and he seemed to be equally delighted with her society. I wonder if Ray will like it? Somehow the thought of it is not agreeable to me, if—if—"

A vivid blush suffused Mona's cheeks as she reached this point in her soliloquy, as if she was overcome at having allowed her thoughts to run away with her to such an extent.

"So Ray is coming to Hazeldean for the ball on Monday evening," she continued, after a while. "Shall I see him? Yes, I shall try to," with an air of resolution. "If he loves me as well as I love him, why should any foolish sensitiveness prevent my allowing him to make it manifest, if he wishes? I do not believe I have any right to ruin both our lives by hiding myself from him. I will prove him in this way; but I must see him alone, so that no one will know that I am Mona Montague, instead of Ruth Richards, the sewing-girl. What if he should ignore me?" she added, with sudden fear and growing very white; then, with renewed confidence: "He will not; if he has been noble enough to confess his feelings to his father, he will not hide them from me. He is noble and true, and I will not doubt him."



CHAPTER XVIII.

"MY DARLING, I LOVE YOU!"

Mr. Palmer, true to his promise to the fair young guests at Hazeldean, telegraphed to Ray the next morning requesting him to come up for the ball on Monday. Later in the day he received a reply from the young man stating that he would do so, although he did not mention the hour when he should arrive.

Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were gay and busy days, for the ball was to be a grand affair, and everybody was anxious to do all possible honor to the occasion and made preparations accordingly.

Mrs. Montague, however, was not so busy but that she managed to spend a good deal of her time with Mr. Palmer, who seemed to renew his youth in her presence, and was so gallant and attentive that the young people, who were exceedingly interested in watching the progress of this middle-aged romance, were kept in a constant flutter of amused excitement. Mr. Wellington and his wife were also considerably diverted by the affair.

"I'm afraid Palmer is a 'gone goose,'" the gentleman laughingly remarked to his spouse, after they had retired to their room on Saturday evening.

"It looks like it," the lady returned; "and really," she added, with some impatience, "there is something almost ridiculous to me in seeing an old man like him dancing attendance upon a gay young widow like Mrs. Montague."

"Young! How old do you imagine her to be?" inquired Mr. Wellington.

"She cannot be much over thirty, and she dresses in a way to make her look even younger than that," the lady responded. "At all events, she seems like a mere girl beside portly, bald-headed Mr. Palmer, and I am afraid that he will regret it if he allows himself to become entangled in her net."

"I see that you are not in favor of the match," replied Mr. Wellington, much amused over his wife's earnestness.

"No, Will; I confess I am not," she said, gravely. "I knew Amos Palmer's first wife, and she was a devoted, care-taking, conscientious woman, never sparing herself when she could add to the comfort and happiness of her family. But this woman is entirely different—she cares very little for anything but society. I admit she is very delightful company—a charming person to have in the house at such a time as this; but I doubt her ability to make Mr. Palmer happy, and I never would have believed that he could have had his head so thoroughly turned by any woman. I thought he was bound up in making money, to leave to that handsome son of his."

"Well, it appears that Cupid can make fools of the best of us," Mr. Wellington returned, with a roguish glance at his wife; "and we do not discover the fact until the noose is irrevocably knotted about our necks. By the way, speaking of accumulating money makes me remember that Palmer had a telegram to-day, telling him that the detective whom he employed on that affair of the diamonds thinks that he is on the track of the thief at last."

"Is that so?" said Mrs. Wellington, with surprise. "Do you imagine that he will ever recover the stones?"

"He may—some of the larger ones, for they had been submitted to an expert; but I doubt if he ever sees many of them again," her husband replied.

* * * * *

During these last two days Mona had been kept steadily employed in performing various duties for Mrs. Montague.

That lady's costume for the ball was to be of great elegance and beauty.

The material was a rich garnet velvet, brocaded in white and gold, with point-lace garniture.

It had not been quite finished before they left New York, and Mona found no little difficulty in setting the many last stitches, for she had had but small experience in finishing garments of any kind, and Mrs. Montague was very particular.

It was quite late in the evening when she completed her task, and, with a sigh of relief, laid the beautiful costume upon the bed, ready for Mrs. Montague's inspection when she should come up stairs for the night.

There was something of regret also mingled with her feeling that she, too, could not join the festivities on Monday evening. She had dearly loved society during the little while she had mingled with it, and the pleasurable excitement of the last few days, which kept all the young ladies in a constant flutter, made her long to be one among them.

It was about half-past two when Mrs. Montague made her appearance, looking flushed and elated, for she had just parted from Mr. Palmer, who had begged her to attend service at the village church with him the next morning. The request was so impressively expressed that she imagined her conquest was nearly complete, and she was therefore in high spirits.

She caught sight of her ball-dress immediately upon entering the room.

"How lovely it is, Ruth," she remarked, "and you have arranged the lace very tastefully upon the corsage. I believe it will be exceedingly becoming. I only wish I could see myself as others will see me on Monday night, and know just how I am going to look. Ruth," she added, suddenly, as if inspired with a bright idea, "you are about my height; suppose you put on the dress and let me get just the effect; that is, if you are not too tired and do not mind being made a show figure, here all by ourselves."

Mona smiled slightly over the woman's vanity, but she was willing to oblige, and so signified her readiness to put the dress on, and in less than ten minutes she had metamorphosed herself from the quiet, retiring sewing-girl into a brilliant society belle.

The dress was a trifle loose for her, yet it was not a bad fit, while her pure neck and arms were as white as the costly lace, which fell in soft folds over them.

Mrs. Montague marveled at the exquisite fairness of her skin, and told herself that she had never realized, until that moment, how very beautiful her young seamstress was.

"You must put everything on, even to the jewels that I shall wear," she said, bringing a large case from one of her trunks, and exhibiting an almost childish eagerness to get the full effect of her costume.

She opened the case, and taking a diamond necklace of great beauty and value from it, clasped it about the girl's milk-white neck. Then she fastened some fine solitaires in her small ears; three or four pins, each having a blazing stone for its head, were tucked amid the glossy braids of her hair, and two glittering snakes were wound about her beautifully rounded arms.

"Now for the fan, and you will be complete," cried Mrs. Montague, as she brought an exquisite affair composed of white ostrich tips, with a bird of Paradise nestling in its center, and handed it to Mona.

Then she stood off to admire the tout ensemble, and just at that moment there came a tap upon her door.

She went immediately to open it, and found her nephew standing outside.

"I've come for the money, Aunt Margie," he said. "I thought I'd better have it to-night, since I am going to town on the early train, and did not like to disturb you in the morning."

"Very well, I will get it for you, and I hope that Madame Millaise will have the mantle ready for you, for I must have it on Monday evening to throw over my shoulders after dancing," Mrs. Montague responded, as she turned back to get her purse.

She was on the point of closing the door, for she did not care to have her nephew know what was going on within the room. But Mr. Louis Hamblin was very keen. He knew from her manner that something unusual was occurring, and so he boldly pushed on after her, and entered the chamber before she was aware of his intention.

He stopped suddenly, however, the moment he had crossed the threshold, stricken with astonishment, as his glance rested upon Mona.

He had known that the girl was unusually lovely, but he was not quite prepared to see such a vision of beauty as now greeted his eyes.

"Jove! Aunt Marg, isn't she a stunner?" he cried, under his breath. "You won't see one at the ball Monday night that can hold a candle to her!"

Mona had flushed a vivid scarlet when he had so unceremoniously forced his way into the room; but at his bold compliment she turned haughtily away from his gaze with the air of an offended queen.

Her bearing, though full of scorn, was replete with grace and dignity, while the voluminous train of the rich dress made her slender form seem even taller and more regal than it really was.

Mrs. Montague had been no less impressed with the young girl's beauty, but it would have affected her no more than that of a wax figure would have done had no one else been present to remark it. Now, however, at Louis' high praise, a feeling of envy sprang up in her heart, and a frown of annoyance gathered on her brow.

"I wish you would go out, Louis," she said, sharply. "It is very rude of you to thus force yourself into my room."

"Come now, Aunt Marg, that's a good one, when all my life I have been in the habit of running in and out of your room, to do your bidding like a lackey," the young man retorted, mockingly. "But really this is an unexpected treat," he added, wickedly. "Miss Richards, in these fine togs, is the most beautiful woman that I have ever seen. And—'pon my word, Aunt Marg, I really believe she looks like—"

"Louis!" came in a sharp, warning cry from Mrs. Montague's lips, as she wheeled around upon him, her blazing eyes having a dangerous gleam in them.

"Like—a picture that I have seen somewhere," he quietly finished, but with a meaning smile and intonation. "How you do snap a fellow up, Aunt Margie! Here, give me the money, and I will clear out before another blast!"

Mrs. Montague handed him a roll of bills, telling him in an icy tone to be sure and get back as early as possible on Monday; and then, as he beat a retreat before her offended looks, she sharply shut the door upon him.

"Take off that dress!" she abruptly commanded of Mona.

Deeply wounded by her ungracious tone, as well as indignant at what had just occurred, the fair girl quickly divested herself of the costly apparel, and then, wishing the woman a quiet good-night, withdrew to her own room.

But nothing could make her very unhappy with the glad refrain that was continually ringing in her heart:

"Ray is coming! I shall see him!" she kept saying over and over. All other emotions were swallowed up in the joy of this, and she was soon sleeping the sweet, restful sleep of youth and dreaming of the one she loved.

But Mrs. Montague was terribly excited when she found herself alone.

"I should never have thought of it if Louis had not spoken, I was so absorbed in the costume," she muttered, as she stood in the middle of the floor and tried to compose herself. "I could almost swear that she was Mona come back to life. She looked almost exactly as she did that night in Paris—shall I ever forget it?—when I told her, and she drew herself up in that proud way; and she had a garnet dress on, too. She does look wonderfully like that picture! Louis was quick to see it, and I will have it destroyed when I return to New York. I can't imagine why I have kept it all these years. Ugh! I feel almost as if I had seen a ghost."

She shook herself, as if to dispel these uncanny thoughts, and then disrobing, retired to rest.

Sunday was a lovely day—more mild and spring-like even than the previous ones had been.

Some of the guests at Hazeldean went to Rhinebeck to attend the morning service, Mr. Palmer and Mrs. Montague among the number; but most of them remained within doors until evening, when Mr. Wellington, their host, requested, as a favor, that all would attend a special service at one of the village churches, where a college friend was to preach, and he wished to give him as large an audience as possible. He also hinted, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes, that they would do well to take their pocket-books along, as a collection would be taken to help to pay for a new organ which the society had just purchased.

It was a glorious evening, and, everybody appearing to partake of the enthusiasm of the host, the whole party set out to walk to the church.

No one thought of asking Mona to go, and thus the young girl was left entirely alone in the house, except for the servants, who were by themselves in the basement.

She was very lonely, and felt both sad and depressed, as she saw the party pass out of sight down the avenue, and for a moment she was tempted to rebel against her hard lot, and the neglect of others, who might at least have remembered that she had a soul to be benefited by Sabbath services as well as they.

She even shed a few tears of regret, for she was young and buoyant, and would dearly have loved to join that gay company of youths and maidens, if she could have done so as an equal.

But after a few moments she bravely wiped away the crystal drops, saying:

"I will not grieve; I will not give up to anything until I have seen Ray. If he is true, the world will be bright, though everybody else gives me the cold shoulder—and he will be here to-morrow. But I am a trifle lonely, all by myself in this great house. I believe I will run down to the music-room and play for a little while. No one is here to be disturbed by it, and I shall not be afraid of critics."

So she went slowly down the dimly lighted stairs to a room on the right of the hall, where, without even turning up the gas, she seated herself at the piano.

The "dim religious light" was rather pleasant to her, in her tender mood, and she could see well enough for her purpose.

She ran her skilled fingers lightly over the keys of the sweet-toned instrument, and almost immediately her whole soul began to wake up to the rich harmony which she evoked.

She played a few selections from Beethoven's "Songs Without Words," sang a ballad or two, and was just upon the point of getting up to look for a book of Sabbath hymns, when a step behind her caused her to turn to ascertain who was intruding upon her solitude.

She saw standing in the doorway leading from the hall, a tall form clad in a long overcoat and holding his hat in his hand.

She could not distinguish his features, but courteously arose to go forward to see who the stranger was, when he spoke, and his tones thrilled her instantly to the very center of her being.

"Pardon me," he began. "I rang the bell, but no one answered it, and, the door being ajar, I ventured to enter. Can you tell me—Ah!—Mona!"

The speaker had also advanced into the room as he spoke, but the light was too dim for him to recognize its occupant until he reached her side, although she had known him the instant he spoke.

His start and exclamation of surprise, the glad, almost exultant tone as he uttered her name, told the fair girl all she needed to know to prove that Ray Palmer was loyal to her, in spite of all the reverses of fortune, of friends, of position, and to prove him the noble character she had always believed him to be.

He stretched forth an eager hand, and grasped hers with a fervor which told her how deeply he was moved to find her, even before his words confirmed it.

"Oh! I have not made a mistake, have I?" he asked, bending his luminous face closer to hers, eager to read a welcome there. "I have found you—at last? If you knew—if I could tell you—But first tell me that you are glad to see me," he concluded, somewhat incoherently.

Mona's hand lay unresisting in his clasp, and a feeling of restful peace filled her heart, as she lifted her glad face to him.

"No, you have made no mistake—it is I, Mona Montague, and I am very"—with a little sob of joy, which she could not control—"very glad to see you again, Mr. Palmer."

"My darling!" he said, made bold by her look, her tone, but more by the little sob, which his own heart told him how to interpret. "Tell me yet more—I cannot wait—I have been so hungry for the sight of your dear face, for the sound of your voice, and I thought that I had lost you. I love you, Mona, with all my heart and strength, and this unexpected meeting has so overcome me that the truth must be told. Are you still 'glad'?—will you make me glad by telling me so?"

"But—Mr. Palmer—" Mona began, tremulously, hardly able to credit her ears, hardly able to believe that this great and almost overwhelming joy was a reality, and not some illusive dream. "I am afraid you forget—"

"What have I forgotten?" he gently asked, but without releasing her hand.

"That my uncle is gone. I have no home, friends, position! Do you know—"

"I know that you are Mona Montague—that I love you, and that I have found you," he interrupted, his own voice quivering with repressed emotion, his strong frame trembling with eager longing, mingled with something of fear that his suit might be rejected.

"Then I am glad," breathed Mona, and the next moment she was folded close to Raymond Palmer's manly bosom, where she could feel the beating of the strong, true, loyal heart of her lover while with his lips pressed upon her silken hair he murmured fond words which betrayed how deep and absorbing his affection was for her—how he had longed for her and how bitterly he had suffered because he could not find her.



CHAPTER XIX.

MONA IS JOYFULLY SURPRISED.

"Then you do love me, Mona?" Ray whispered, fondly, after a moment or two of happy silence. "I must hear you say it even though you have tacitly confessed it and my heart exults in the knowledge. I cannot be quite satisfied until I have the blessed confirmation from your own lips."

"You certainly can have no reason to doubt it after such a betrayal as this," Mona tried to say playfully, to shield her embarrassment, as she lifted her flushed face from its resting-place, and shot a glad, bright look into his eyes. Then she added in a grave though scarcely audible voice: "Yes I do love you with all my heart!"

The young man smiled; then with his arm still infolding her he led her beneath the chandelier and turned on a full blaze of light.

"I must read the glad story in your eyes," he said, tenderly, as he bent to look into them. "I must see it shining in your face. Ah, love, how beautiful you are still! And yet there is a sad droop to these lips"—and he touched them softly with his own—"that pains me; there is a heaviness about these eyes which tells of trial and sorrow. My darling, you have needed comfort and sympathy, while I was bound hand and foot, and could not come to you. What did you think of me, dear? But you knew, of course."

"I knew—I hoped there was some good reason," faltered Mona, with downcast eyes.

"You 'hoped!' Then you did think—you feared that I, like other false friends, had turned the cold shoulder on you in your trouble?" he returned, a sorrowful reproach in his tone. "Surely you have known about the stolen diamonds?"

"Yes, I knew that your father had been robbed."

"And about my having been kidnapped also—the papers were full of the story."

Mona looked up, astonished.

"Kidnapped!" she exclaimed. "No; this is the first that I have heard of that."

"Where have you been that you have not seen the papers?" Ray inquired, wonderingly.

"As you doubtless know," Mona replied, "Uncle Walter died very suddenly the day after I attended the opera with you, and for a fortnight afterward I was so overcome with grief and—other troubles, that I scarcely looked at a paper. After that, one day, I saw a brief item referring to the robbery, and it is only since I came here that I had even a hint that you had been ill."

"Come, then, dear, and let me tell you about it, and then I am sure you will absolve me from all willful neglect," Ray said, as he led her to a tete-a-tete and seated himself beside her. "But first tell me," he added, "how I happen to find you here. Are you one of the guests?"

"No," Mona said, blushing slightly, "You know, of course, that I lost home and everything else when I lost Uncle Walter, and now I am simply acting as seamstress and waiting maid to a Mrs. Montague, who is a guest here."

"Ah!" exclaimed the young man, with a start, as he remembered how Mrs. Montague had denied all knowledge of Mona. "I have met the lady—is she a relative of yours?"

"No; at least, I never saw her until I entered her house to serve her."

"My poor child! to think that you should have to go out to do such work," said Ray, with tender regret. "But of course, as you say, I can understand all about it, for that, too, was in the papers; but it was very heartless, very cruel in that Mrs. Dinsmore not to make you any allowance, when she could not fail to know that your uncle wished you to inherit his property. She must be a very obnoxious sort of person, isn't she?"

"I do not know," said Mona, with a sigh; "I have never seen her—at least, not since I was a child, and too young to remember anything about her."

"Do you mean that you did not meet her during the contest for Mr. Dinsmore's fortune?" questioned Ray in surprise.

"No, she did not appear at all personally; all her business was transacted through her lawyer, as mine was through Mr. Graves," Mona answered.

"Well, it was an inhuman thing for her to do, to take everything and leave you penniless, and obliged to earn your own living. But that is all over now," the young man said, looking fondly into the fair face beside him. "Isn't it, darling? You have told me that you love me, but you have not yet promised me anything. You are going to be my wife, are you not, Mona?"

"I hope so—if you wish—some time," she answered, naively, yet with crimson cheeks and downcast eyes.

He laughed out gladly as he again embraced her.

"'Some time, if I wish,'" he repeated. "Well, I do wish, and the some time must be very soon, too. Ah, my sweet, brown-eyed girlie! how happy I am at this moment! I did not dream that I was to find such a wealth of joy when I came hither at my father's earnest request. I was grieving so for you I had no heart for the gayeties which I knew I should find here; now, however, I shall not find it difficult to be as gay as any one. How glad I am, too, that I came to-night to find you here alone. My father does not expect me until to-morrow; but I had a matter of importance to talk over with him, so ran up on the evening train. But I am forgetting that I have a thrilling story to tell you."

He then related all that had occurred in connection with the bold diamond robbery and his imprisonment and subsequent illness in Doctor Wesselhoff's retreat for nervous patients, while Mona listened with wonder-wide eyes and a paling cheek, as she realized the danger through which her lover had passed.

"What an audacious scheme!" she exclaimed, when he concluded. "How could any woman dare to plan, much less put it into execution! No wonder that you were ill, and you must have been very sick, for you are still thin and pale," Mona said, regarding him anxiously.

"I shall now soon outgrow that," Ray responded, smiling. "It was chiefly anxiety and unhappiness on your account that kept me thin and pale. You will see how quickly I shall recover my normal condition now that I have found you and know that you are all my own. Now tell me all about your own troubles, my darling. Do you know, it seems an age to me since we parted that night at your uncle's door, and you gave me permission to call upon you? My intention then was to seek an interview with Mr. Dinsmore within a day or two, tell him of my love for you, and ask his permission to address you. But, even had no misfortune overtaken me, I could not have done so, since he was stricken that very night; but at least I could have come to you with words of sympathy."

Mona then gave him a detailed account of all that had happened during those dark days, when her only friend lay dead and she felt as if all the world had forsaken her.

"Mona," the young man gravely said, when she had finished her story, "I shall tell my father to-night of this interview—he already knows that I love you—and ask his sanction to our immediate marriage, for I cannot have you remain here among my friends and acquaintances another day in the capacity of a seamstress or waiting-maid."

"But, Ray—" Mona began, then she stopped short, blushing rosily at having thus involuntarily called him by his Christian name. She had always thought of him thus, and it passed her lips before she was aware of it.

He laughed out, amused at her confusion.

"There, dear, you have broken the ice almost without knowing it," he said; "now we shall get on nicely if you do not let it freeze over again; but what were you going to say?"

"I was going to ask you not to speak of—of our relations to each other to any one just yet," Mona returned, with some embarrassment.

"Why not?" Ray demanded, astonished, and looking troubled by the request.

"There are reasons why I must remain for a while longer with Mrs. Montague," said the young girl.

"Not in the capacity of waiting-maid," Ray asserted, decidedly; "I cannot allow that."

"Indeed I must, Ray," Mona persisted, but with an appealing note in her voice; "and I will tell you why. I told you that Mrs. Montague was no relative; she is not really, and yet—she was my father's second wife."

"Mona! you astonish me," cried her lover, regarding her wonderingly.

"It is true, and there is some mystery connected with my own mother and my early history which I am exceedingly anxious to learn. Uncle Walter told me something of it only the day before he died; but I am very sure that he kept back certain portions of the story which I ought to know, and which he was also anxious to tell me when he was dying, and could not. I have no means even of proving my identity; if I had, I suppose that I could claim some of this wealth of which Mrs. Montague appears to have abundance, and I am sure that she has some proof in her possession. I want to get it, and that is why I am anxious to remain with her a little longer. Let me tell you everything," Mona went on, hurriedly, as Ray seemed about to utter another protest to her wish. "As I understand the story, my father was dependent upon a rich aunt who wished him to marry the present Mrs. Montague; but he, being in love with my mother, was opposed to so doing, although he was anxious to secure the fortune. As he was about to start on a European tour he married my mother and took her with him, none of his friends apparently suspecting the union.

"Now comes a part of the story which I cannot understand. They traveled for several months; but, while in Paris, my father suddenly disappeared, and my mother, believing herself deserted, in her pride and humiliation, immediately left the city, doubtless with the intention of returning to America. She was taken ill in London, however, and there, a few months later, I was born, and she died only a few hours afterward. Uncle Walter heard of her sad condition, and hastened to her, but was three days too late, and found only a poor weak infant upon whom to expend his love and care. It seems very strange to me that she did not write to him at the time she fled from Paris; but I suppose, since she had eloped with and been secretly married to my father, she was too proud and sensitive to appeal to any one. Later, my father married this Miss Barton to please his aunt and secure the fortune which he so much desired. I do not know anything about his after-life. I questioned Uncle Walter, but he would not talk about him—the most that he would tell me was that he was dead, but how, or when he died, I could never learn, and I do not know as there even exists any proof of his legal marriage with my mother, although my uncle confidentially asserted that she was his lawful wife. I believe, however, that such proofs do exist and that they are in Mrs. Montague's possession."

Mona then proceeded to relate how she had happened to secure the position she now occupied.

"It seems very strange," she said, "that fate should have thrown me thus into her home, and somehow I have a suspicion that she must have been concerned in the great wrong done my mother—that it was because of her influence that my father never owned nor provided for me. And now," Mona continued, flushing a deep crimson, "I am obliged to confess something of which I am somewhat ashamed. When I found myself in Mrs. Montague's home, and had resolved to remain, I knew that she would instantly suspect my identity if I should give her my true name. This, of course, I did not wish her to do, and so when she asked me what she should call me, I told her 'Ruth Richards,' The name Ruth really belongs to me, but Richards is assumed. Now, Ray, you can understand why I do not wish to have Mrs. Montague undeceived regarding my identity, as she must be if you insist upon at once proclaiming our relations. I am very strongly impressed that she knows the secret of my father's desertion of my mother, and also that she could prove, if she would, that I am the child of their legal marriage."

Ray Palmer had grown very grave while listening to Mona's story, and when she spoke of her assumed name it was evident, from the frown on his brow, that he did not approve of having her hide herself from the world in any such way.

"Why not ask her outright, then?" inquired this straightforward young man, as the young girl concluded.

"That would never do at all," said Mona. "Uncle Walter told me that she hated my mother, and me a hundred-fold on her account, and she would not be very likely to put any proofs into my hands, especially when they would be liable to be very detrimental to her own interests."

"True, I did not think of that," returned Ray, thoughtfully. "But how do you expect to obtain possession of these proofs, even if she has them, and how long must I wait for you?" he gloomily added.

"I do not know, Ray," she answered, with a sigh. "I do not see my way very clearly. I keep hoping, and something seems to hold me to this position in spite of myself. Let me remain three or six months longer; then if I do not succeed—"

"I will concede three months, but no more," Ray interposed, decidedly; then added: "What does it matter whether you know all this history or not? It cannot be anything of vital importance, or that will affect your future in any way. I wish you would let me speak to my father and announce our engagement at once, my darling."

"Nay, please, Ray, let me have my way in this," Mona pleaded, with crimson cheeks. She could not tell him that she felt sensitive about becoming his wife until she could have absolute proof of the legal marriage of her father and mother.

He bent down and looked earnestly into her face.

"Mona, is that the only reason why you wish to wait? You do not shrink from our union from any doubt of your own heart—of your love for me, or mine for you?" he gravely asked.

"No, indeed, Ray," and she put out both her hands to him, with an eagerness that entirely reassured him even before she added: "I cannot tell you how glad, how restful, how content I am since your coming to-night. I was so lonely and sorrowful, the future looked so dark and cheerless because I feared I had lost you; but now all is bright."

She dropped her face again upon his breast to hide the blushes this confession had called up, and the happy tears also that were dropping from her long lashes.

He gathered her close to his heart, thrilling at her words.

"Then I will try to be patient for three months, love," he murmured, "and meantime I suppose you will have to be Ruth Richards to me as well as to others."

"Yes, it will not do to have my real name known—that will spoil all," Mona replied, with a sigh, for her truthful soul recoiled with as much aversion from all deception as he possibly could do.

"And am I not to see you during all this time?" Ray ruefully asked.

"Oh, yes; not to see you would be unbearable to me," Mona responded quickly. "Can you not manage to have some one introduce me to you as Miss Richards while you are here? then neither Mrs. Montague nor any one else would think it strange if you should seek me occasionally; only—"

"Only what?" inquired the young man, wondering to see her color so vividly and appear so embarrassed.

"Perhaps I should not tell you," Mona said, with some hesitation, "and yet you must learn the fact sooner or later from some other sources; but Mrs. Montague appears to be growing quite fond of your father, who is very attentive to her, and she might not exactly like—"

"She might not like to have the son of the man for whom she is angling to pay attention to her seamstress, is what you were going to say?" Ray interposed, laughing, yet with a look of annoyance sweeping over his fine face.

"Something like it, perhaps," Mona responded, flushing again.

"Well, I do not believe she is going to land her fish, if you will pardon the slang phrase," said the young man, confidently. "My father has successfully resisted the allurements of the gentler sex for too many years to succumb at this late day; so you and I need give ourselves no uneasiness upon that score. Does he know you as Ruth Richards?"

"Yes, if indeed he knows me at all. I have received no introduction to him, and I only knew him from hearing Mr. Wellington greet him and inquire regarding the lost diamonds," Mona explained. Then she added: "Do you expect to recover them, Ray? have you any clew?"

"Yes, we have a slight one, we think, and that is one reason why I am here to-night. The detective in our employ sent a telegram to my father yesterday mentioning the fact, but he thought it best for me to come up to-night and talk the matter over more fully with him, and hurry him back to New York early on Tuesday morning. A woman is being shadowed upon the suspicion of having committed a bold swindle in Chicago, and Mr. Rider thinks, without any doubt, that she is the same person who so cleverly did us out of our diamonds."

"Hark! please," said Mona, as just then she caught the sound of voices in the distance, "the party is returning from evening service, and I must not be found here with you."

"I am loath to let you go, my brown-eyed sweetheart," Ray tenderly responded.

"And I to go," Mona answered softly, "but it is best that I should; we must both be judicious for a while—we must not be too exacting when we have had this great new happiness come to us so unexpectedly," and she lifted her luminous eyes to him.

He clasped her to him again.

"Good-night, my darling," he said; then with one lingering kiss upon her lips, he let her go, and she stole softly up stairs, with a joyous heart and step, while Ray drew a paper from his pocket, and was apparently deeply absorbed in its contents when the party entered the house.

A good deal of surprise was expressed when his arrival was discovered, and he was accorded a warm welcome by the host and hostess as well as by every guest.



CHAPTER XX.

MR. RIDER MAKES AN ARREST.

While the festivities were in progress at Hazeldean, some incidents of a somewhat singular character were occurring in New York.

It will be remembered that Mr. Palmer and his son met Mrs. Montague for the first time at the reception given by Mrs. Merrill; also that their attention was attracted to a lady who wore a profusion of unusually fine diamonds—a Mrs. Vanderheck.

We know how Ray was introduced to her, and repeated her name as Vanderbeck, with an emphasis on the beck; how she started, changed color, and glanced at him curiously as he did so, and seemed strangely ill at ease while conversing with him afterward, and a little later abruptly took her leave.

The next day, the young man communicated these suspicious circumstances to the private detective whom his father had employed to look up his stolen diamonds, and from that time Mrs. Vanderheck had been under close surveillance by that shrewd official.

Mr. Rider was a very energetic man, and, by dint of adroit inquiries and observations, learned that she was a woman who devoted most of her time to social life—was very gay, very fond of dress and excitement of every kind. She did not, however, resemble in any way the Mrs. Vanderbeck who had conducted the robbery of the Palmer diamonds, although, he argued, she might easily enough be an accomplice.

The detective interviewed Doctor Wesselhoff, who was now as eager as any one to assist in the discovery of those who so imposed upon him, and obtained a minute description of the other woman who had arranged for Ray Palmer to become an inmate of his institution, and he thought that possibly by the aid of a clever disguise, Mrs. Vanderheck might have figured as Mrs. Walton, the pretended mother of the pretended monomaniac.

Consequently, energetic Mr. Rider had followed close upon her track, bound to discover her real character.

She resided in a fine brown-stone mansion up town; sported an elegant carriage and a spanking pair of bays, and, to all appearances, possessed an unlimited bank account.

She was sometimes attended on her drives by a gentleman, many years older than herself, who appeared to be something of an invalid, and who, as far as the detective could learn, was engaged in no business whatever.

These latter facts increased his suspicions, for the reason that the woman who had robbed Mr. Palmer had wished to submit her selections to the sanction of an invalid husband.

Disguised as a spruce young coachman, Mr. Rider managed to ingratiate himself with a pretty, but rather vain young servant-girl in Mrs. Vanderheck's employ, and by means of well-turned compliments, re-enforced now and then with some pretty gift, he managed to keep himself well posted regarding the mistress' movements and her social engagements, and then he diligently followed up his espionage by frequenting the many receptions and balls which she attended.

At these places she was always magnificently attired and seldom wore any ornaments except diamonds, of which she appeared to possess an endless store, and all were of great beauty and value.

It was at a Delmonico ball, which was given in honor of a person of royal descent, and on the Friday evening preceding Ray Palmer's visit to Hazeldean, that Mr. Rider found his plans ripe for action and accomplished his great coup de grace.

He had learned, through the pretty servant-girl, that Mrs. Vanderheck was to grace the occasion with her presence and was to be attired in a costume of unusual richness and elegance—"with diamonds enough to blind you," the lively and voluble Fanny had boasted to her admirer.

Consequently the detective got himself up in elaborate style, obtained a ticket for the ball by some means best known to himself, and, when the festivities were at their height, slipped in upon the brilliant scene.

He was not long in "spotting" his prey, who was conspicuous in white brocaded velvet and white ostrich tips, while her person was literally ablaze with diamonds.

"Great Scott!" the man muttered, as he ran his keen eye over her gorgeous attire; "it is a mystery to me how any woman dare wear such a fortune upon her person; she is liable to be murdered any day. Why, she—Aha!"

His heart gave a sudden leap, and for a moment, as he afterward described his sensations, it seemed as if some one had struck him on the head with a club, for he actually saw stars and grew so dizzy and confused that he could scarcely stand; for—in the woman's ears he caught sight of a gleaming pair of crescents!

He soon recovered himself, however, and took a second look. He had, as we know, been looking for those peculiar ornaments for more than three years, and now he had found them, as he had always believed he should, upon a gay woman of fashion in the midst of fashionable admirers.

It did not take him long to decide upon his course of action, and he was now again the cool and collected detective, although the fierce glitter in his eyes betrayed some relentless purpose in his mind.

He made his way quietly into a corner, where he stood covertly watching the brilliant woman, and comparing her appearance with a description that was written in cipher upon some tablets which he took from his pocket.

"'Very attractive, about twenty-eight or thirty years, rather above medium height, somewhat inclined toward embonpoint, fair complexion, blue eyes, short, curling red hair,'—Hum!" he softly interposed at this point, "she answers very well to all except the red hair; but drop a red wig over her light-colored pate, tint her eyebrows and lashes with the same color, and I'll wager my badge against a last year's hat we'd have the Bently widow complete. There can be no doubt about the crescents, though, and that cross on her bosom looks wonderfully like the one that Palmer described to me. I suppose she thought no one would be on the lookout for it here, and she could safely wear it with all the rest, I always said the same woman put up both jobs," he interposed, with a satisfied chuckle. "Guess I'll take a nearer look at the stones, though, before I do anything desperate."

He put up his tablets, and began to move slowly about the rooms; but his eagle eye never once left the form of the woman in white brocaded velvet.

Three hours later, Mrs. Vanderheck, wrapped in an elegant circular of crimson satin, bordered with ermine, and attended by her maid and a dignified policeman as a body-guard, swept down the grand stair-way leading from the ball-room to the street, on her way to her carriage.

As she stepped out across the pavement and was about to enter the vehicle, a quiet, gentlemanly looking person approached her and saluted her respectfully.

"Madame—Mrs. Vanderbeck," with an intentional emphasis on the last syllable, "you are my prisoner!"

The woman gave a violent start as she caught the name, and darted a keen glance of inquiry at him, all of which Mr. Rider was quick to note.

Then she drew herself up haughtily.

"Sir, I do not know you, and my name is not Vanderbeck; you have made a mistake," she said, icily.

"I have made no mistake. You are the woman I have been looking for, for more than three years, whether you spell your name with a b, an h, or in a different way altogether; and I repeat—you are my prisoner."

Mr. Rider laid his hand firmly but respectfully on her arm, as he ceased speaking, to enforce his meaning.

She shook him off impatiently.

"What is the meaning of this strange proceeding?" she demanded, indignantly; then turning to the policeman who attended her, she continued, in a voice of command: "I appeal to you for protection against such insolence."

"How is this, Rider?" now inquired the officer, who recognized the detective, and was astonished beyond measure by this unexpected arrest.

"She has on her person diamonds that I have been looking for, for over three years, and I cannot afford to let them slip through my fingers after such a hunt as that," the detective quietly explained.

"It is false!" the woman stoutly and indignantly asserted. "I wear no jewelry that is not my own property. Everything I have was either given to me or purchased with my husband's money."

"I trust you will be able to prove the truth of your assertions, madame," Mr. Rider quietly returned. "If you can do so, you will, of course, have no further trouble. But I must do my duty. I have been employed to search for a pair of diamond crescents which properly belong to a person in Chicago. I have seen such a pair in your ears to-night. You also wear a cross like one that I am searching for, and I shall be obliged to take you into custody until the matter can be properly investigated."

Mrs. Vanderheck was evidently very much startled and upset by this information, yet she behaved with remarkable fortitude, considering the trying circumstances.

"What am I to do?" she inquired, again appealing to the policeman attending her. "The crescents he mentions are mine—I bought them almost three years ago in Boston. Of course, I know that I must prove my statement, and I think I can if you will give me time, for I believe I still have the bill of sale in my possession. I will look it up, and if"—turning to the detective—"you will call upon me some time to-morrow you shall have it."

Mr. Rider smiled, for the unsophisticated suggestion amused him immensely.

"I cannot lose sight of you, madame," he said, courteously. "What you have said may be true; I shall be glad, on your account, if it proves so; but my duty to others must be rigidly enforced, and so I am obliged to arrest you."

"But I cannot submit to an arrest; you surely do not mean that I—a woman in my position—am to be imprisoned on the charge of theft!" exclaimed the woman, growing deadly white.

"The law is no respecter of persons or position, madame," laconically responded the detective.

"What can I do?" Mrs. Vanderheck cried, in a tone of despair.

"Rider, I am afraid you have made a mistake," the policeman now remarked, in a low tone; "the woman is all right. I've acted as escort for her on such occasions as these for the last two years."

The detective looked astonished and somewhat perplexed at this statement.

If Mrs. Vanderheck had led a respectable life in New York for two years, and was as well known to this officer as he represented, he also began to fear that he might have made a mistake.

"You are willing to defer the arrest if she can furnish ample security for her appearance when wanted?" the policeman asked, after a moment of thought.

"Ye-es; but responsible parties must vouch for her," Mr. Rider answered, with some hesitation.

The woman seized the suggestion with avidity.

"Oh, then, I have a dozen friends who will serve me," she cried, eagerly. "Come back to the ball-room with me and you shall have security to any amount." and with a haughty air she turned back and entered the brilliantly lighted building which she had recently left.

The policeman conducted them into a small reception-room, and Mrs. Vanderheck sent her card, with a few lines penciled on it, to a well-known banker, who was among the guests in the ball-room, requesting a few moments' personal conversation with him.

The gentleman soon made his appearance, and was greatly astonished and no less indignant upon being informed of what had occurred.

But he readily understood that the matter in hand must be legally settled before the lady could be fully acquitted. He therefore unhesitatingly gave security for her to the amount required by the detective, but politely refused to receive, as a guarantee of her integrity, the costly ornaments which Mrs. Vanderheck offered him then and there for the service so kindly rendered.

She, then, without a murmur, delivered over to the detective, in the presence of her friend, the policeman, and her maid, the contested crescents and cross, and was then allowed to take her departure, with her attendants, without further ceremony.

Early the next morning the following message went flashing over the Western wires to Chicago, addressed thus:

"To JUSTIN CUTLER, ESQ.:—Crescents found. Come at once to identify. Bring bogus ones.

"RIDER."

The detective then sought Mr. Palmer, but upon being informed that he was out of town, and would not return until the early part of the coming week, he related to Ray what had happened on the previous evening, and advised him to communicate the fact as soon as possible, to his father, and notify him that an examination would take place at ten o'clock on the following Tuesday.

Ray had already telegraphed, in answer to his father's message, that he would come to Hazeldean on Monday for the ball, and at first he thought he would make no change in his plans. The news was good news, and would keep for a day or two, he told himself.

But the detective's enthusiasm over the arrest was so contagious, he found himself wishing that his father could also know what had occurred.

He had an engagement for that evening—which was Saturday—so he could not go to Hazeldean that day, and finally contented himself by commissioning Mr. Rider to drop Mr. Palmer a message, giving him a hint of the arrest, and then arranged to go himself to explain more fully, by the Sunday evening train.

It almost seemed as if fate had purposely arranged it thus, that he might find Mona alone as he did, to declare his love, and win in return the confession of her affection for him.

The moment his father entered the house and met him, on his return from the evening service at the village, he realized that some great change had come over him; he was very different from the depressed, anxious-eyed son whom he had left only a few days previous.

He could hardly attribute it entirely to the news of the arrest of the supposed thief of the diamonds, and yet he could think of nothing else, for he firmly believed that Walter Dinsmore's niece had left New York after her uncle's death, and he had no reason to believe that Ray had found trace of her.

But whatever had caused the change—whatever had served to bring back the old light to his eyes, the old smile to his lips, and all his former brightness and energy of manner, he was grateful for it, and he hailed the result with a delight that made itself manifest in the hearty grip of his hand and his eager-toned:

"How are you, Ray, my boy? I am glad to see you."



CHAPTER XXI.

MONA AND RAY HAVE ANOTHER INTERVIEW.

Mona was very happy as she went up to her room after her interview with Ray that eventful Sunday evening, during the early part of which life had seemed darker than usual to her.

The man whom she loved was true, in spite of the doubt and sorrow she had experienced over his apparent neglect. She had not after all built her hopes upon shifting sand; she had not reared an idol in her heart only to have to hurl it from its shrine as false and worthless. Oh, no; her lover was a man to be reverenced—to be proud of, and to be trusted under all circumstances.

She exulted in these facts almost as much as in the knowledge of his love for her, and she dropped to sleep with joy in her heart, smiles on her lips, and tears of gratitude flashing like diamonds on her long brown lashes.

The next morning she seemed almost like a new creature. The world had suddenly acquired a wonderful brightness and beauty, and it was a delight even to exist.

It was no hardship to be a seamstress or even a waiting-maid, so long as she was blessed with Raymond Palmer's love and with the prospect of becoming his wife in the near future.

Involuntarily a gay little song rippled from her lips while she was dressing, and the unusual sound catching Mrs. Montague's ear caused a look of surprise to sweep over her face, for she had never heard Ruth Richards sing so much as a note before.

"The girl has a sweet, flexible voice. I wonder if she is going to surprise me, every now and then, with some new accomplishment! Maybe I have an embryo prima-donna in my employ!" she muttered, with a scornful smile.

Her surprise was not diminished when she saw the happy girl with her bright and animated manners and the new love-light shining on her face, making it almost dazzling in its intensified loveliness.

"What has come over you, Ruth?" Mrs. Montague inquired, regarding her curiously. "One would almost imagine you were going to the ball yourself to-night, you appear to be so happy and elated."

"I believe there must be something unusually exhilarating in the atmosphere," Mona replied, a gleeful little laugh rippling over her smiling lips, although she blushed beneath the woman's searching look. "Don't you think that excitement is sometimes infectious?—and surely everybody has been active and gay for days. I like to see people happy, and then the morning is perfectly lovely."

Truly the world was all couleur de rose to her since love's elixir had given a new impetus to her heart-pulses!

Mrs. Montague frowned slightly, for somehow the girl's unusual mood annoyed her.

She could not forget her exceeding loveliness on Saturday evening, when she had been arrayed in the festal robe which she herself was to wear at the ball, and the memory of it nettled her.

Perhaps, she thought, Ruth remembered it also, and was secretly exulting over the fact of her own beauty. Exceedingly vain herself, she was quick to suspect vanity in others, and this thought only increased her irritation.

"I'd give a great deal if she wasn't so pretty; and—and that style of beauty always annoys me," she said to herself, with a feeling of angry impatience.

And giving a sudden twitch to a delicate ruffle, which she had begun to arrange upon the corsage of a dress, to show Mona how she wanted it, she made a great rugged tear in the filmy fabric, thus completely ruining the frill.

This only served to increase her ill humor.

"There! now I cannot wear this dress at dinner to-day," she cried, flushing angrily over the mishap, "for the frill is ruined."

"Haven't you something else that you can use in its place?" Mona quietly asked.

"No; nothing looks as well on this corsage as these wide, fleecy frills of crape lisse. It is the only dress, too, that I have not already worn here, and I was depending upon it for to-day," was the irritable response.

Mona thought she had plenty of laces and ruffles that would have answered very well, and which might easily have been substituted, but she did not think it best to make any further suggestions to her in her present mood.

"I know what I can do," Mrs. Montague continued, after a moment, in a milder tone. "I saw some ruffling very nearly like this in a milliner's window at Rhinebeck, when I was out riding on Saturday. There are some other little things that I shall want for this evening, and you may take a walk by and by to get them for me."

Rhinebeck was a full mile away, and Mrs. Montague could easily have arranged to have Mona ride, for a carriage was sent every morning for the mail; but it did not occur to her to do so, or if it did, she evidently did not care to put herself to that trouble.

Mona, however, did not mind the walk—indeed, on the whole, she was rather glad of the privilege of getting out by herself into the sunshine which was so in harmony with her own bright mood. Still she could not help feeling that it was rather inconsiderate of Mrs. Montague to require her to walk two miles simply to gratify a mere whim.

It was about nine o'clock when she started out upon her errand, and as she ran down the steps and out upon the broad avenue, her bright eyes went glancing eagerly about, for Mona had secretly hoped that she might catch a glimpse of and perhaps even secure a few words with her lover.

But Ray was nowhere visible, being just at that moment in the smoking-room with several other gentlemen.

Mr. Palmer, the senior, however, was walking in the park, and evidently deeply absorbed in the consideration of some important matter, for his hands were clasped behind him, his head was bowed, and his eyes fixed upon the ground.

But he glanced up as Mona passed him, and his eyes lighted as they fell upon her beautiful face.

He lifted his hat and bowed as courteously to her as he would have done to Mrs. Montague herself, and Mona's heart instantly warmed toward him for his politeness as she returned his salute.

"She is the prettiest girl in the house if she is only a waiting-maid," he muttered, as he turned for a second to look at the graceful figure after Mona had passed him. "How finely she carries herself—how elastic her step!"

Another pair of observing eyes had also caught sight of her by this time, and mental comments of a far different character were running through a younger brain.

The smoking-room at Hazeldean was in the third story of the south wing of the house, and overlooked the avenue and park, as well as a broad stretch of country beyond, and Ray Palmer, sitting beside one of the windows—apparently listening to the conversation of his companions, but really thinking of his interview with Mona the previous evening—espied his betrothed just as she was leaving the grounds of Hazeldean and turning into the main road.

He knocked the ashes from his cigar, took another whiff or two, then laid it down, and turned to his host, who was sitting near him.

"I believe I would like a canter across the country this bright morning, Mr. Wellington," he remarked. "May I beg the use of a horse and saddle for a couple of hours?"

"Certainly, Mr. Palmer—whatever I have in the stable in the form of horses or vehicles is as the disposal of my guests," was the courteous reply. "It is a fine morning for a ride," the gentleman added, "and perchance," with an arch smile, "you may be able to find some bright-eyed maiden who would be glad to accompany you."

Ray thanked him, and then hastened away to the stable to select his horse—his companion he knew he would find later on. In less than fifteen minutes from the time he had seen Mona leave the grounds he was cantering in the same direction; but she was a rapid walker, and he did not overtake her until she had nearly reached the village.

She caught the sound of a horse's hoofs behind her, but did not like to look back to see who was approaching, and it was only when the equestrian was close beside her that she glanced up to find the fond, smiling eyes of her lover resting upon her.

The glad look of welcome which leaped into her own eyes and flashed over her face told him how well he was beloved far better than any words could have done.

"Ray!" she exclaimed, in a joyous tone, as he drew rein beside her, and unhesitatingly laid her hand within the strong palm which he extended to her.

"My darling!" he returned, as he leaped to the ground, "this is an unexpected pleasure! I hardly dared to hope that I should see you alone to-day. How does it happen that you are so far from Hazeldean and walking?"

"Mrs. Montague had a few errands which she wished me to do for her in the village," Mona explained.

"Could she not have arranged for you to ride?" Ray asked, with a frown, and flushing to have his dear one's comfort so ignored.

"Oh, I do not mind the walk in the least," she hastened to say. "The morning is very lovely, and I am glad, on the whole, for I should have missed you if I had ridden."

"True, I saw you just as you were leaving Hazeldean, and so came after you," Ray returned, smiling.

They were just entering Rhinebeck now, and Mona looked anxiously up and down the street.

She feared that some of the other guests at Hazeldean might be about and see her with Ray if they should go through the place together.

He was quick to note the anxiety, and to understand its cause.

"How long will it take you to make your purchases, Mona?" he inquired, looking at his watch.

"Half an hour, perhaps," she replied.

"Well, then, I will leave you here, for a little trot about the country, and meet you again at this spot at the end of thirty minutes. I cannot resist the temptation to have a little chat with you on the way home," Ray returned, and, with another fond pressure of the hand, he leaped again upon his horse and galloped away.

With a rapidly beating heart and flushed cheeks, Mona hurried on her way. She made her purchases with all possible dispatch, then, as she had a few minutes to spare, she slipped into a hot-house, where flowers were cultivated for the city market, and bought a bunch of white violets, and a few sprays of heliotrope, then she turned her footsteps back toward Hazeldean.

She had hardly reached the spot where she had parted from Ray, when she heard him coming in the distance.

He joined her in another moment, and springing from the saddle, he threw the bridle-rein over his arm and walked beside her, leading his horse.

They had not proceeded far when they came to a place where another road appeared to branch off from the road they were on.

"Let us turn here," Ray said. "I have been exploring while you were in the village, and I found that this is a kind of lane, hedged on either side with a thick growth of pines, and leads back to the main road farther on. It is a little roundabout, but we shall not be likely to meet any one whom we know, and we shall feel far more freedom."

Mona was very glad to adopt this plan, and wandering slowly along beneath the shadows of the heavy pines, the lovers soon forgot that there was any one else in the world except themselves.

They talked over more fully the incidents of the weeks of their separation, but Ray dwelt a good deal upon the story of the stolen diamonds, and Mona could not fail to observe that he was very much troubled about the affair.

"It is a great loss," he remarked, with a sigh, "and though I cannot feel that I am culpably blamable, yet I do not cease to reproach myself for having been so thoroughly fooled by that woman. If I had only retained my hold upon the package, she never could have got it."

"But you may recover the diamonds, even now," Mona remarked. "You say that the detective arrested a woman on Friday evening as the suspected party."

"Yes, he suspects her in connection with another case, which he has been at work upon for over three years," and Ray related the story of the stolen crescents, then continued: "At the Delmonico ball he saw this Mrs. Vanderheck with them in her ears, and a cross like one that we lost, so he arrested her upon suspicion of both robberies, but somehow I am not very sanguine that we shall recover the stones."

"Did you not see the cross?" Mona asked.

"No; Mr. Rider had deposited it somewhere for safe keeping. It will be produced at the examination to-morrow. But, really, Mona," Ray interposed, with a nervous laugh, "I feel worse over the fact of having been so taken in by this pretended Mrs. Vanderbeck, than over the pecuniary loss."

The poor fellow felt very much as Justin Cutler felt when he learned how he had been tricked into paying a large price for the pair of paste crescents.

"How did the woman look, Ray? Describe her to me," Mona said.

She experienced a strange fascination in the story with all its curious details.

Ray gave a vivid word-picture of the beautiful woman, her dress, her carriage, and even her driver, for everything connected with that unexampled experience was indelibly stamped upon his mind.

"You say her dress was badly torn," Mona musingly observed, when he had concluded the account of the discovery, and what had followed their getting out of the carriage and entering Doctor Wesselhoff's office.

"Yes, there was quite a rent in it, and I imagine this circumstance was not premeditated in the plan of her campaign, for she certainly was annoyed to have the beautiful cloth torn, although she tried to make light of it," Ray replied, then added: "And later in the day I found a piece of the goods adhering to my clothing."

"Did you?" questioned Mona, eagerly.

"Yes, and if I should ever see that dress again I could easily identify it, for I have the piece now and could fit it into the rent. But doubtless my lady has disposed of that costume long before this. Here is the piece, though—I have kept it, thinking it might possibly be of use some time."

Ray drew forth his pocket-book as he spoke, opened it, took out a folded paper, and handed it to Mona.

She opened it, and found carefully pinned within, a scrap of mauve colored ladies' cloth, in the form of a ragged acute angle.

"It is almost like broadcloth—very fine and heavy," she exclaimed. "It is a lovely color, too, and must have been a very beautiful costume."

"It was, and dangerously so," said Ray, dryly. "I admired it exceedingly, especially the fit and make of it."

"I imagine it might have been found in some dye-house shortly after, if you had only thought of it and known where to look," Mona thoughtfully observed.

"That is a bright idea," said Ray, quickly. "I honestly believe that women would make keener and better detectives than men. But," with a sigh, "I'm afraid it is too late now to put your theory to the test, and perhaps I have brushed against its folds on the street a dozen times since in a different color. Well, I suppose I must try to reconcile myself to the inevitable and make up my mind that the stones are gone beyond recovery, unless this Mrs. Vanderheck should prove to be the thief. I have not much faith in the detective's theory, that the Chicago adventuress and our diamond thief are one and the same."

"There seems to be a singular coincidence about the name of the lady who so imposed upon you, and that of the one who is now under arrest," Mona remarked.

"Yes, the only difference is in one letter, and if Mrs. Vanderheck does not prove to be my charmer, or connected with her in any way, I shall be tempted to believe that she purposely took a name so similar in order to throw suspicion upon this woman," said the young man, thoughtfully.

"That may be; and is it not a little suspicious, too, that Mrs. Vanderbeck should have mentioned an invalid husband when Mrs. Vanderheck really has one?" Mona inquired.

"I had not thought of that before," Ray replied. "Still another singular circumstance comes to my mind just at this moment. At the time I was introduced to Mrs. Vanderheck, at Mrs. Merrill's reception, I repeated the name as if it was spelled with a 'b,' and emphasized the last syllable. The woman started, glanced at me curiously, and changed color a trifle, while she did not seem to quite recover her self-possession throughout our conversation."

"That does seem rather strange, considering all things," said Mona. "Perhaps, after all, she may prove to be your adventuress; and yet she must be a very bold one to flaunt her plunder so recklessly and in the very presence of people who would be sure to recognize it."

They changed the subject after that, and chatted upon topics of a more tender and interesting nature.

It was a delightful walk in the mild February air, and a pleasant interview, and both were loath to part when they suddenly found themselves at the other end of the pine-shadowed lane where it curved into the main road again.

Ray took a tender leave of his dear one, then mounting his horse, rode back over the way they had just traversed, while Mona went on to Hazeldean.



CHAPTER XXII.

MONA ATTENDS THE BALL AT HAZELDEAN.

Mona found considerable excitement and confusion prevailing upon her return, for carpenters and decorators were busy about the house; flowers and plants were being carried in from the conservatory; the caterer and his force were arranging things to their minds, in the dining-room and kitchen, and everybody, guests included, was busy and in a flutter of anticipation over the approaching festivities.

"It seems to me that you were gone a long while," Mrs. Montague curtly remarked, as Mona entered her room.

"Was I?" the young girl asked, pleasantly; then she added: "Well, two miles make quite a walk."

Mrs. Montague flushed at the remark.

She was well aware that she had been unreasonable in requiring so much, just to secure a few articles which she might have very well done without, and this thought did not add to her comfort.

She made no reply, but quietly laid out some work for Mona, whom she kept busily employed during the remainder of the day.

The young girl cheerfully performed all that was required of her, however; her interview with Ray had served to sweeten every task for that day, while she hoped that she might secure another opportunity, before it was over, for a few more words with him.

But after dinner Mrs. Montague came up stairs better-natured than she had been all day, and turning to Mona, as she entered the room, she asked:

"Have you none but mourning dresses with you? nothing white, or pretty, for evening?"

"No; my dresses are all black; the only thing I have that would be at all suitable for evening is a black net," Mona answered, wondering, with rising color, why she had asked the question.

"That might do with some white ribbons to liven it up a bit," said Mrs. Montague, thoughtfully. Then she explained: "Mr. Wellington has arranged a balcony in the dancing hall for some friends who are coming to the ball, just to look on for a while, and he has just said to me that there would be a seat for you, if you cared to see the dancing."

Mona looked up eagerly at this.

She dearly loved social life, and she had wished, oh, so much! that she might have the privilege of witnessing the gay scenes of the evening.

"That is very kind of Mr. Wellington," she gratefully remarked.

"Get your dress, and let me look at it," continued Mrs. Montague, who would not commit herself to anything until she could be sure that her seamstress would make a respectable appearance among Mr. Wellington's friends.

He had requested as a favor that Miss Richards might be allowed this privilege in return for having so kindly relieved his daughter at the piano a few evenings previous.

Mona brought the dress—a rich, heavy net, made over handsome black silk, which had been among her wardrobe for the previous summer, when she went to Lenox with her uncle.

"That will be just the thing, only it needs something to relieve its blackness," said Mrs. Montague, while she mentally wondered at the richness of the costume.

"I have some narrow white taste in my trunk, which I can perhaps use to make it a little more suitable for the occasion, if you approve," Mona quietly remarked.

"Yes, fix it as you like," the lady returned, indifferently, adding: "that is if you care about going into the pavilion."

"Thank you; I think I should enjoy watching the dancers for a while," the young girl returned.

Perhaps, she thought, she might be able to snatch another brief interview with Ray. At all events she should see him, and that would be worth a great deal.

Her nimble fingers were very busy after that running her white ribbons into the meshes of her dress.

She wove three rows of the narrow, feather-edged taste into each of the flounces, and the effect was very pretty. Then she did the same between the puffs of the full sleeves, tying some dainty bows where she joined them, and finished the neck to correspond.

This was hardly completed when she was called to assist Mrs. Montague in dressing, and by the time she was ready to descend her good humor was thoroughly restored, for she certainly was a most regal looking woman in her elegant and becoming toilet.

"I do not believe there will be another dress here this evening as beautiful as this," Mona remarked, as she fastened the last fold in place, her pretty face flushing with genuine admiration for the artistic costume.

"It is handsome, and I look passably young in it, too; how old should you take me to be Ruth?" Mrs. Montague asked, with a smiling glance at her own reflection in the mirror.

"A trifle over thirty, perhaps," Mona replied, and the little exultant laugh which broke from her companion told her that she felt highly flattered by that estimate of her years.

"There!" she remarked, as she drew on her gloves, "you need do nothing more for me; go now and get ready yourself, or you will miss the opening promenade."

Mona hastened away to her own room, where she had everything laid out in the most orderly manner, ready to put on, and if Mrs. Montague could have seen the dainty undergarments and skirts spread upon her bed; the costly kid boots and silken hose for her pretty feet, she might have arched her eyebrows more than ever over the extravagant taste of her seamstress.

Mona arranged her hair with great care, as she had worn it on the evening when she attended the opera with Ray, and this done she was soon ready.

She looked lovely. The black net, with its dainty white trimmings, was very becoming to her delicate complexion. The lining to the corsage had been cut low, and her pure white neck gleamed like marble through the meshes of the dusky lace. There was no lining, either, to her sleeves and her beautifully rounded arms looked like bits of exquisite sculpture. She had turned the lace away in the shape of a V at her throat, and now finished it by pinning to her corsage the cluster of white violets which she had purchased in the morning.

She regretted that she had no gloves with her suitable for the occasion, but since she was only to sit in the balcony, she thought it would not matter much if she wore none, and her small white hands, with their rose-tinted finger-tips, were by no means unsightly objects.

She was very happy and light-hearted, as she turned for one last look in her mirror before leaving her room.

She smiled involuntarily at her own loveliness, and gave a gay little nod at the charming reflection as she turned away.

Then she went out and softly down a back stair-way to avoid the crowds of people who were going up and down the front way.

But, on reaching the lower floor, she was obliged to cross the main hall and drawing-room in order to reach the pavilion, which Mr. Wellington had caused to be erected outside on the lawn for dancing, and which was connected with the house by a covered passage leading from one of the long windows of the drawing-room.

Mona stood in the doorway a moment, feeling slightly embarrassed at the thought of going unattended to search for her seat in the balcony.

Just then a round, white arm was slipped about her waist, and a gay, girlish voice cried in her ear:

"Oh, Miss Richards! how perfectly lovely you look! Are you coming to the ball?"

Mona turned and smiled into the bright face of Kitty McKenzie, who was radiant in pink silk and white tulle.

"No, only as a spectator," she replied, with an answering smile. "Mr. Wellington has kindly offered me a seat in the balcony, where I shall enjoy watching the merrymakers."

"But do you not like to dance yourself?" questioned the girl.

"Oh, yes, indeed. I used to enjoy it very much," Mona replied, with a little sigh.

"Then I think it is a great pity that you cannot join us to-night," returned Miss Kitty, regretfully, for she had caught the sigh; "only," she added, with sudden thought, "being in mourning, perhaps you would rather not."

"No, I should not care to dance to-night," Mona returned, and then she became conscious that a familiar form was approaching the spot where they stood.

It was not an easy matter for her to keep back her color as Ray drew near, and try to appear as if she had never seen him before. She knew that he was choosing this opportunity to be formally introduced to her.

But the voluble Miss McKenzie saluted him in her frank outspoken manner.

"Oh, Mr. Palmer," she cried, "are not the rooms lovely?—the flowers, the lights, indeed all the decorations?"

"They are, truly, Miss McKenzie; and," he added, with a merry smile, as he glanced at her bright face and figure, and then turned his gaze upon Mona, "there are some other lovely adornments about the rooms, besides those so skillfully used by the professional decorator."

"Thank you—of course that was intended as a compliment to ourselves," the quick-witted little lady returned, as she dropped him a coquettish courtesy; "and," turning to Mona, "perhaps you would like an introduction to my friend. Miss Richards, allow me to present you to Mr. Palmer."

Ray bowed low over the white hand which Mona mechanically offered him, and which he clasped in a way to send a thrill leaping along her nerves that made the violets upon her bosom quiver, as if a breath of wind had swept over them.

She barely had time to acknowledge the presentation, however, when an icy voice behind her remarked:

"Miss Richards, Mr. Wellington is looking for you to conduct you to your seat in the balcony."

Turning, Mona saw Mrs. Montague regarding her with a look of cold displeasure, and she knew that she must have witnessed her introduction to Ray, and disapproved of it.

But she was secretly glad that she had been so near, for now she could feel free to recognize her lover whenever they met, without the fear of being questioned as to how she happened to know him.