Two darkly solemn eyes look up into Sir Victor Catheron's face. Both bow. Both murmur the pianissimo imbecility requisite on such occasions, and Edith Darrell is acquainted with a baronet.

With, a baronet! Only yesterday, as it were, she was darning hose, and ironing linen at home, going about the dismal house slipshod and slatternly. Now she is in the midst of a brilliant ball, diamonds sparkling around her, and an English baronet of fabulous wealth and ancestry asking her for the favor of the next waltz! Something ridiculous and absurd about it all, struck her; she felt an idiotic desire to laugh aloud. It was all unreal, all a dream. She would awake presently, to hear her step-mother's shrill call to come and help in the kitchen, and the howls of the juvenile Darrells down the passage. A familiar voice rouses her.

"You'll not forget, I hope, Edith," Charley is saying, "that next redowa is mine. At present I am going to meander through the lancers with Mrs. Featherbrain."

He takes her tablets, coolly writes his name, smiles, shows his white teeth, says "Au revoir," and is gone. She and the baronet are alone.

What shall she say to him? She feels a whimsical sort of trepidation as she flutters her fan. As yet the small-talk of society, is Sanscrit, to this young lady from Sandypoint. Sir Victor leans lightly against the arm of her chair, and looks down upon her as she sits, with flushed cheeks, half smiling lips, and long black lashes drooping. He is thinking what a wonderfully bright and charming face it is—for a brunette.

For Sir Victor Catheron does not fancy brunettes. He has his ideal, and sees in her the future Lady Catheron. In far-off Cheshire there is a certain Lady Gwendoline; she is an earl's daughter, the owner of two soft blue eyes, a complexion of pink and snow, a soft, trained voice and feathery halo of amber hair. Lady Gwendoline is his ideal of fair, sweet womanhood, turning coldly from all the rest of the world to hold out her arms to one happy possessor. The vision of Lady Gwendoline as he saw her last, the morning sunshine searching her fair English face and finding no flaw in it, rises for a second before him—why, he does not know. Then a triumphal burst of music crashes out, and he is looking down once more upon Edith Darrell, in her white dress and coral ornaments, her dark hair and pink roses.

"You seem quite like an old acquaintance, Miss Darrell," he says, in his slow, pleasant, English accented voice; "our mutual friend, the prince, has told me about his adventure in the snow, and your heroism."

"The prince?" she repeats, interrogatively, and Sir Victor laughs.

"Ah! you don't know. They call him the prince here—Prince Charlie. I don't know why, I'm sure, unless it be that his name is Charles Edward Stuart, and that he is the prince of good fellows. You have no idea how delighted I am that he—that the whole family are going across with us in May. You accompany them, I understand, Miss Darrell."

"As companion and interpreter on the continent," Miss Darrell answers, looking up at him very steadily. "Yes."

"And you will like the continent, I know," Sir Victor goes on. "You will like Paris, of course. All Americans go to Paris. You will meet scores of your countrymen in every continental city."

"I am not sure that that is an advantage," responds the young lady coolly. "About my liking it, there can be no question. It has been the dream of my life—a dream I thought as likely to be realized a month ago, as that I should take a trip to the moon. For you, Sir Victor, I suppose every nook and corner of Europe, is as familiar to you, as your own native Cheshire?"

The brown brilliant eyes look up at him frankly. She is at her ease at last, and Sir Victor thinks again, what beautiful eyes, brown eyes are. For a dark young person, she is really the most attractive young person he has ever met.

"Cheshire," he repeats with a smile, "how well you know my birthplace. No, not my birthplace exactly, for I was born in London. I'm a cockney, Miss Darrell. Before you all go abroad, you are to come and spend a week or two down in my sunny Cheshire; both my aunt and I insist upon it. You don't know how many kindnesses—how many pleasant days and nights we owe to our friends, the Stuarts. It shall be our endeavor when we reach England to repay them in kind. May I ask, Miss Darrell, if you have met my aunt?"

"No," Edith replies, fluttering a little again. "I have not even seen
Lady Helena as yet."

"Then allow me the pleasure of making you acquainted. I think you will like her. I am very sure she will like you."

The color deepens on Edith's dark cheek; she arises and takes his proffered arm. How gracefully deferential and courteous he is. It is all custom, no doubt, and means nothing, but it is wonderfully pleasant and flattering. For the moment it seems as though he were conscious of no other young lady in the scheme of creation than Miss Darrell—a flirting way a few young men cultivate.

They walk slowly down the long brilliant rooms, and many eyes turn and look after them. Every one knows the extremely blonde young baronet—the dark damsel on his arm is as yet a stranger to most of them. "Dused pretty girl, you know," is the unanimous verdict of masculine New York; "who is she?" "Who is that young lady in the dowdy white muslin and old fashioned corals?" asks feminine New York, and both stare as they receive the same whispered reply: "A poor relation—a country cousin, or something of the sort, going to Europe with them as companion to Beatrix."

Edith sees the looks, and the color deepens to carnation in her face. Her brown eyes gleam, she lifts her head with haughty grace, and flashes back almost defiance at these insolent starers. She feels what it is they are saying of her, and Sir Victor's high bred courtesy and deference, go to the very depths of her heart by contrast. She likes him; he interests her already; there is something in his face, she can hardly tell what,—a sort of sombre shadow that underlies all his smiling society manner. In repose and solitude, the prevailing expression of that face will be melancholy, and yet why? Surely at three-and-twenty, life can have shown nothing but her sunshine and roses, to this curled darling of fortune.

A stout, elderly lady, in gray moire and chantilly lace, sits on a sort of a throne of honor, beside Mrs. Stuart, and a foreign gentleman, from Washington, all ribbons and orders. To this stout, elderly lady, as Lady Helena Powyss, his aunt, Sir Victor presents Miss Darrell.

The kindly eyes of the English lady turn upon the dark, handsome face of the American girl; the pleasant voice says a few pleasant words. Miss Darrell bows gracefully, lingers a few moments, is presented to the ribbon-and-starred foreigner, and learns he is Russian Ambassador at Washington. Then the music of their dance strikes up, both smilingly make their adieux, and hasten to the ball-room.

Up and down the long waxed room, in and out with gorgeous young New York, in all the hues of the rainbow, the air heavy with perfume, the matchless Gounod waltz music crashing over all, on the arm of a baronet—worth, how much did Trixy say? thirty or forty thousand a year?—around her slim white muslin waist Edith is in her dream still—she does not want to wake—Trixy whirls by, flushed and breathless, and nods laughingly as she disappears. Charley, looking calm and languid even in the dance, flits past, clasping gay little Mrs. Featherbrain, and gives her a patronizing nod. And Edith's thought is—"If this could only go on forever!" But the golden moments of life fly—the leaden ones only lag—we all know that to our cost. The waltz ends.

"A most delicious waltz," says Sir Victor gayly. "I thought dancing bored me—I find I like it. How well you waltz, Miss Darrell, like a Parisienne—but all American young ladies are like Frenchwomen. Take this seat, and let me fetch you a water ice."

He leads her to a chair and departs. As she sits there, half smiling and fluttering her fan, looking very lovely, Charley saunters up with his late partner. "If your royal highness will permit," cries Mrs. Featherbrain, laughing and panting, "I will take a seat. How cool and comfortable you look, Miss Darrell. May I ask what you have done with Sir Victor?"

"Sir Victor left me here, and told me he would go for a water ice. If I look cool, it is more than I feel—the thermometer of this room must stand at a hundred in the shade."

"A water ice," repeats Mrs. Featherbrain with a sigh; "just what I have been longing for, this past half hour. Charley, I heard you say something about bringing me one, some time ago, didn't I? But I know of old what you're promises are worth. You know the adage, Miss Darrell—never more true than in this instance, 'Put not your trust in princes.'"

Miss Darrell's dark, disdainful eyes look full at the frivolous young matron. Mrs. Featherbrain and Mr. Stuart have been devoted to each other all the evening.

"I know the adage," she answers cooly, "but I confess I don't see the application."

"What! don't you know Charley's sobriquet of Prince Charley? Why he has been the Prince ever since he was five years old, partly on account of his absurd name, partly because of his absurd grand seigneur airs. I think it fits—don't you?"

"And if I were Prince," Charley interposes, before Miss Darrell can answer, "my first royal act would be to order Featherbrain to the deepest dungeon beneath the castle moat, and make his charming relict Princess consort, as she has long, alas! been queen of my affections!"

He lays his white-kidded hand on the region of his heart, and bows profoundly. Mrs. Featherbrain's shrill, rather silly laugh, rings out—she hits him a blow with her perfumed fan.

"You precocious little boy!" she says, "as if children of your age
knew what their affections meant. Miss Darrell, you'll not credit it
I'm sure, but this juvenile cousin of yours—Charley, you told me,
Miss Darrell, was your cousin—was my first love—actually—my first!"

"And she jilted me in cold blood for Featherbrain. Since then I've been a blighted being—hiding, like the Spartan chap in the story, the fox that preys on my vitals, and going through life with the hollow mockery of a smile on my lips."

Again Mrs. Featherbrain's foolish little laugh peals out. She leans back, almost against him, looks up, and half whispers something very daring in French.

Edith turns away disgusted, gleams of disdainful scorn in, her shining hazel eyes. What a little painted giggling idiot the woman is—what fools most young men are! What business have married women flirting, and how much more sensible and agreeable Englishmen are than Americans.

"Miss Darrell looks sick of our frivolity," Mrs. Featherbrain gayly exclaims; "the wickedness of New York and the falsity of mankind, are new to her as yet. You saved Charley's life, didn't you, my love? Trixy told me all about it,—and remained with him all night in the snow, at the risk of your own life. Quite a romance, upon my word. Now why not end it, like all romances of the kind, in a love match and a marriage?"

Her eyes glitter maliciously and jealously, even while she laughs. If it is in the shallow heart of this prettily-painted, prettily-powdered woman, to care for any human being, she has cared for Charley Stuart.

"Mrs. Featherbrain!" Edith exclaims, in haughty surprise, half rising.

"My dear, don't be angry—you might do worse, though how, it would be difficult to say. I suggested it, because it is the usual ending of such things in novels, and on the stage—that is all."

"And as if I could fall in love with any one now," Mr. Stuart murmurs, plaintively. "Such a suggestion from you, Laura, is adding insult to injury."

"Here comes our baronet," Mrs. Featherbrain exclaims, "bearing a water ice in his own aristocratic hand. Rather handsome, isn't he?—only I detest very fair men. What a pity, for the peace of mind of our New York girls, he should be engaged in England."

"Ah! but he isn't engaged—I happen to know," said Charley; "so you see what comes of marrying in haste, Mrs. Featherbrain. If you had only waited another year now, instead of throwing me over for old Featherbrain, it might have been for a baronet—for of course there isn't a girl in New York could stand the ghost of a chance beside you."

"A most delicate compliment," Edith says, her scornful lip curling;
"one hardly knows which to admire most—the refined tact of Mr.
Stuart's flatteries, or the matronly dignity with which Mrs.
Featherbrain repels them!"

She turns her white shoulder deliberately upon them both, and welcomes
Sir Victor with her brightest smile.

"And for a rustic lassie, fresh from the fields and the daisies, it isn't so bad," is Mrs. Featherbrain's cool criticism.

"And I hope, despite Sir Victor's aristocratic attentions, Miss
Darrell, you'll not forget you're engaged to me for the redowa,"
Charley finds a chance to murmur, sotto voce, in her ear, as he
and his flirtee move on.

"You see the poor child's jealous, Charley," is the Featherbrain's last remark—"a victim to the green-eyed monster in his most virulent form. You really should be careful, my dear boy, how you use the charms a beneficent Providence has showered upon you. As you are strong, be merciful, and all that sort of thing."

The hours go on. Edith eats her water ice, and talks very animatedly to her baronet. Balls (he has had a surfeit of them, poor fellow!) mostly bore him—to-night he is really interested. The Americans are an interesting people, he thinks that must be why. Then the redowa begins, and Charley returns and carries her off. With him she is coldly silent, her eyes are averted, her words are few. He smiles to himself, and asks her this pleasant question:

"If she doesn't think Laura Featherbrain the prettiest and best-dressed lady in the room?"

"I think Mrs. Featherbrain is well-named," Miss Darrell answers, her dark eyes flashing. "I understand Mr. Featherbrain is lying sick at home. You introduced me to her—while I live in this house, Mr. Stuart, you will be kind enough to introduce me to no more—Mrs. Featherbrains!"

She brings out the obnoxious name with stinging scorn, and a look toward the lady bearing it sharper than daggers. There is a curious smile in Charley's eyes—his lips are grave.

"Are you angry, Edith? Do you know—of course you do, though—that it becomes you to be angry? My charming cousin, I never knew until to-night how really handsome you were."

She disengages herself with sudden abruptness from his clasp.

"I am tired of dancing," she says. "I detest redowas. And be kind enough to keep your odious point-blank compliments for the 'prettiest and best-dressed lady in the room.' I don't appreciate them!"

Is it jealousy? Charley wonders, complacently. He sits down beside her, and tries to coax her into good humor, but she is not to be coaxed. In ten minutes another partner comes up and claims her, and she goes. The pretty, dark girl in white, is greatly admired, and has no lack of partners. For Mr. Stuart he dances no more—he leans against a piller, pulls his mustache; and looks placid and handsome. He isn't devoted to dancing, as a rule he objects to it on principle, as so much physical exertion for very little result; he has only fatigued himself to-night as a matter of abstract duty. He stands and watches Edith dance—this country girl has the lithe, willowy grace of a Bayadere, and she is laughing now, and looking very bright and animated. It dawns upon him, that she is by all odds the prettiest girl in the house, and that slowly but surely, for the hundred-and-fiftieth time in his life, he is falling in love.

"But I might have known it," Mr. Stuart thinks, gravely; "brown beauties always did play the dickens with me. I thought that at five-and-twenty I had outgrown all that sort of youthful rubbish, and here I am on the brink of the pit again. Falling in love in the present, involves matrimony in the future, and matrimony has been the horror of my life since I was four years old. And then the governor wouldn't hear of it. I'm to be handed over to the first 'daughter of a hundred earls' across in England, who is willing to exchange a tarnished British coronet for a Yankee million or two of dollars."

It is Trixy who is dancing with the baronet now—Trixy who descends to supper on the baronet's arm. She dances with him once again after supper; then he returns to Edith.

So the hours go on, and the April morning is growing gray. Once, Edith finds herself seated beside genial Lady Helena, who talks to her in a motherly way, that takes all her heart captive at once. Sir Victor leans over his aunt's chair, listening with a smile, and not saying much himself. His aunt's eyes follow him everywhere, her voice takes a deeper tenderness when she speaks to him. It is easy to see she loves him with almost more than a mother's love.

A little longer and it is all over. Carriage after carriage rolls away—Sir Victor and Lady Helena shake hands with this pretty, well-bred Miss Darrell, and go too. She sees Charley linger to the last moment, by fascinating Mrs. Featherbrain, whispering the usual inanity, in her pretty pink ear. He leads her to her carriage, when it stops the way, and he and the millionnaire's wife vanish in the outer darkness.

"Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand, and loud on the stone,
The last wheel echoes away."

Edith hums as she toils up to her pretty room. Trixy's grand field night is over—Edith's first ball has come to an end, and the first night of her new life.