"Two waltzes," said Trix, counting on her fingers; "that's two; one cracovienne, that's three; les lanciers, that's four; one galop, that's five; and one polka quadrille, that's six. Six dances, round and square, with Sir Victor Catheron. Edith," cried Miss Stuart, triumphantly, "do you hear that?"

"Yes, Trixy, I hear," said Edith, dreamily.

"You don't look as if you did, or if you do hear, you don't heed. Six dances—two more I am certain, than he danced with any other girl in the house. That looks promising, now doesn't it? Edith, the long and short of the matter is this: I shall break my heart and die if he doesn't make me Lady Catheron."

A faint, half-absent smile—no other reply from Miss Darrell. In the handsome reception-room of the Stuart mansion, the two girls sat. It was half-past three in the afternoon, of the day succeeding the ball. In the luxuriant depths of a puffy arm-chair, reclined Edith Darrell, as much at home, as though puffy chairs and luxuriant reclining, had ever been her normal state. The crimson satin cushions, contrasted brilliantly with her dark eyes, hair and complexion. Her black silk dress was new, and fitted well, and she had lit it up with a knot of scarlet tangled in some white lace at the throat. Altogether she made a very effective picture.

In another puffy rocking-chair near, sat Trixy, her chestnut hair crepe to her eyebrows and falling in a crinkling shower down to her waist. Her voluminous draperies balloon over the carpet for the space of a couple of yards on either side, and she looked from top to toe the "New Yorkiest of New York girls." They made a very nice contrast if you had an eye for effect—blonde and brunette, dash and dignity, style and classic simplicity, gorgeous furniture, and outside the gray, fast-drifting April afternoon, the raw, easterly April wind.

"Of course," pursued Miss Stuart, going on with the web of rose-colored knitting in her lap, "being the daughter of the house, and considering the occasion, and everything, I suppose a few more dances than usual were expected of him. Still, I don't believe he would have asked me six times if—Edith! how often did he dance with you?"

"How often did—I beg your pardon, Beatrix; I didn't catch what you said."

"I see you didn't. You're half-asleep, arn't you? A penny for your thoughts, Dithy."

"They're not worth a farthing," Edith answered, contemptuously. "I chanced just then to be thinking of Mrs. Featherbrain. What was it you asked—something about Sir Victor?"

"I asked how often Sir Victor danced with you last night."

"I really forget. Four times, I think—yes, four times. Why?"

"He danced six with me, and I'm sure he didn't dance more than half as often with any one else. Mamma thinks he means something, and he took me to supper, and told me about England. We had quite a long conversation; in fact, Edith, I fairly grow crazy with delight at the thought of one day being 'My lady.'"

"Why think of it, then, since it sets you crazy?" Edith suggested, with cool indifference. "I daresay you've heard the proverb, Trix, about counting your chickens before they're hatched. However, in this case I don't really see why you should despair. You're his equal in every way, and Sir Victor is his own master, and can do as he likes."

"Ah, I don't know!" Trix answered with a despondent sigh, "he's a baronet, and these English people go so much for birth and blood. Now you know we've neither. It's all very well for pa to name Charley after a prince, and spell Stuart, with a u instead of an ew, like everybody else, and say he's descended from the royal family of Scotland—there's something more wanted than that. He's sent to London, or somewhere, for the family coat-of-arms. You may laugh, Edith, but he has, and we're to seal our letters with a griffin rampant, or a catamount couchant, or some other beast of prey. Still the griffin rampant, doesn't alter the fact, that pa began life sweeping out a grocery, or that he was in the tallow business, until the breaking out of the rebellion. Lady Helena and Sir Victor are everything that's nice, and civil, and courteous, but when it comes to marrying, you know, that's quite another matter. Isn't he just sweet, though, Edith?"

"Who? Sir Victor? Poor fellow, what has he ever said or done to you, Trix, to deserve such an epithet as that? No, I am glad to say he didn't strike me as being 'sweet'—contrariwise, I thought him particularly sensible and pleasant."

"Well, can't a person be sweet and sensible too?" Trix answered, impatiently. "Did you notice his eyes? Such an expression of weariness and sadness, and—now what are you laughing at. I declare, you're as stupid as Charley. I can't express a single opinion that he doesn't laugh at. Call me sentimental if you like, but I say again he has the most melancholy expression I ever looked at. Do you know, Dithy, I love melancholy men."

"Do you?" said Edith, still laughing. "My dear lackadaisical Trixy! I must confess myself, I prefer 'jolly' people. Still you're not altogether wrong about our youthful baronet, he does look a prey at times to green and yellow melancholy. You don't suppose he has been crossed in love, do you? Are baronets—rich baronets—ever crossed in love I wonder. His large, rather light blue eyes, look at one sometimes as though to say:

"'I have a secret sorrow here,
A grief I'll ne'er impart,
It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear,
But it consumes the 'art!'"

Miss Darrell was an actress by nature—she repeated this lachrymose verse, in a sepulchral tone of voice.

"That's it, you may depend, Trixy. The poor young gentleman's a prey to unrequited affection. What are you shaking your head so vehemently at?"

"It isn't that," said Trix, looking solemn and mysterious, "it's worse!"

"Worse! Dear me. I didn't think anything could be worse. What is it then?"

"Murder!"

It was Trixy's turn to be sepulchral. Miss Darrell opened her big brown eyes. Miss Stuart's charnel-house tone was really blood curdling.

"My dearest Trix! Murder! Good gracious, you can't mean to say we've been dancing all night with a murderer? Who has he killed?"

"Edith, don't be an idiot! Did I say he killed any one? No, it isn't that—it's a murder that was committed when he was a baby."

"When he was a baby!" Miss Darrell repeats, in dense bewilderment.

"Yes, his mother was murdered, poor thing. It was a most shocking affair, and as interesting as any novel you ever read," said Trixy, with the greatest relish. "Murdered in cold blood as she slept, and they don't know to this day who did it."

Edith's eyes were still very wide open.

"His mother—when he was a baby! Tell us about it, Trix. One naturally takes an interest in the family murders of one's future second cousin-in-law."

"Well," began Miss Stuart, still with the utmost relish, "you see his father—another Sir Victor—made a low marriage—married the daughter of a common sort of person, in trade. Now there's a coincidence to begin with. I'm the daughter of a common sort of person in trade—at least I was!"

"It is to be hoped the coincidence will not be followed out after the nuptial knot," answered Edith, gravely, "it would be unpleasant for you to be murdered, Trix, and plunge us all into the depth of despair and bombazine. Proceed, as they say on the stage, 'Your tale interests me.'"

"He was engaged—the other Sir Victor, I mean—to his cousin, a Miss Inez Catheron—pretty name, isn't it?—and, it seems, was afraid of her. She was a brunette, dark and fierce, with black eyes and a temper to match."

A bow of acknowledgment from Miss Darrell.

"As it turned out, he had good reason to be afraid of her. He was a year and a half married, and the baby—this present Sir Victor—was two or three months old, when the marriage was made public, and wife and child brought home. There must have been an awful row, you know, at Catheron Royals, and one evening, about a month after her arrival, they found the poor thing asleep in the nursery, and stabbed to the heart."

"Was she asleep after she was stabbed or before?"

"Bother. There was an inquest, and it turned out that she and Miss Catheron had had a tremendous quarrel, that very evening: Sir Victor was away when it happened, and he just went stark, staring mad the first thing, when he heard it. Miss Catheron was arrested on suspicion. Then it appeared that she had a brother, and that this brother was an awful scamp, and that he claimed to have been married to Lady Catheron before she married Sir Victor, and that he had had a row with her, that same day too. It was a dreadfully mixed up affair—all that seemed clear, was that Lady Catheron had been murdered by somebody, and that Juan—yes, Juan Catheron—had run away, and when wanted, was not to be found."

"It appears to have been a strictly family affair from first to last—that, at least, was a consolation. What did they do to Miss Inez Catheron?"

"Put her in prison to stand her trial for murder. She never stood it, however—she made her escape, and never was heard of, from that day to this. Isn't it tragical, and isn't it dreadful for Sir Victor—his mother murdered, his father crazy, or dead, ages ago for what I know, and his relations tried for their lives?"

"Poor Sir Victor! Dreadful indeed. But where in the world, Trixy, did you find all this out? Has he been pouring the family history so soon into your sympathetic ear?"

"Of course not; that's the curious part of the story. You know Mrs.
Featherbrain?"

"I'm happy to say," retorted Miss Darrell, "I know very little about her, and intend to know less."

"You do know her, however. Well, Mrs. Featherbrain has a father."

"Poor old gentleman!" says Miss Darrell, compassionately.

"Old Hampson—that's his name. Hampson is an Englishman, and from
Cheshire, and knew the present Sir Victor's grandfather. He gets the
Cheshire papers ever since he left, and, of course, took an interest
in all this. He told Mrs. Featherbrain—and what do you think?—Mrs.
Featherbrain actually asked Lady Helena."

"It is precisely the sort of thing Mrs. Featherbrain would be likely to do. 'Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.' How copious are my quotations this afternoon. What did Lady Helena say?"

"Gave her a look—a lady who was present told me—such a look. She turned dead white for a minute, then she spoke: 'I never discuss family matters with perfect strangers.' Those were her words—'perfect strangers.' 'I consider your question impertinent, madame, and decline to answer it.' Then she turned her back upon Mrs. Featherbrain; and shouldn't I like to have seen Mrs. Featherbrain's face. Since then, she just bows frigidly to her, no more."

"Little imbecile! Trixy, I should like to see those papers."

"So you can—I have them. Charley got them from Laura Featherbrain.
What could not Charley get from Laura Featherbrain I wonder?" adds
Trix, sarcastically.

Edith's color rose, her eyes fell on the tatting between her fingers.

"Your brother and the lady are old lovers then? So I inferred from her conversation last night."

"I don't know about their being lovers exactly. Charley has that ridiculous flirting manner, young men think it their duty to cultivate, and it certainly was a strong case of spoons—excuse the slang. Pa would never have listened to it, though—he wants birth and blood too, and old Hampson's a pork merchant. Then Phineas Featherbrain came along, sixty years of age, and a petroleum prince. Of course, there was a gorgeous wedding—New York rang with it. I don't see that the marriage makes much difference in Charley and Laura's flirtation, though. Just wait a minute and I'll go and get the papers—I haven't read it all myself."

Miss Stuart swept, stately and tall, from the room, returning in a few moments with some half-dozen old, yellow newspapers.

"Here you are, sir," she cries, in shrill newsboy singsong; "the full, true and particular account of the tragedy at Catheron Royals. Sounds like the title of a sensation novel, doesn't it? Here's No. 1 for you—I've got on as far as No. 4."

Miss Darrell throws aside her work and becomes absorbed in the Chesholm Courier of twenty-three years back. Silence fell—the moments wore on—the girls become intensely interested, so interested that when the door was thrown open and "Sir Victor Catheron" announced, both sprang to their feet, conscience-stricken with all their guilt, red in their faces.

He advanced, hat in hand, a smile on his face. He was beside Trix first. She stood, the paper still clutched in her hand, her cheeks redder than the crimson velvet carpet. His astonished eyes fell upon it—he who ran might read—the Chesholm Courier in big, black letters, and in staring capitals, the "TRADGEDY OF CATHERON ROYALS."

The smile faded from Sir Victor Catheron's lips, the faint color, walking in the chill wind had brought, died out of his face. He turned of that dead waxen whiteness, fair people do turn—then he lifted his eyes and looked Miss Stuart full in the face.

"May I ask where you got this paper?" he asked, very quietly.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" burst out Trixy. "I'm awfully sorry, but I—I didn't know—I mean, I didn't mean—oh, Sir Victor, forgive me if I have hurt your feelings. I never meant you to see this."

"I am sure of that," he said, gently; "it is necessarily very painful to me. Permit me to ask again, how you chanced to come by these papers?"

"They were lent us by—by a lady here; her father is from Cheshire, and always gets the papers. Indeed I am very, very sorry. I wouldn't have had it happen for worlds."

"There is no need to apologize—you are in no way to blame. I trust I find you and Miss Darrell entirely recovered from the fatigue of last night. The most charming party of the season—that is the unanimous verdict, and I for one indorse it."

He took a seat, the color slowly returning to his face. As he spoke, two eyes met his, dark, sweet, compassionate, but Edith Darrell did not speak a word.

The obnoxious papers were swept out of sight—Miss Stuart made desperate efforts at ease of manner, and morning call chit-chat, but every effort fell flat. The spell of the Chesholm Courier was on them all, and was not to be shaken off. It was a relief when the baronet rose to go.

"Lady Helena desires best regards to you both—she has fallen quite in love with you, Miss Darrell. As it is a 'Nilsson night' at the academy, I suppose we will have the pleasure of seeing you there?"

"You certainly will," answered Trix, "Edith has never heard Nilsson yet, poor child. Remember us to Lady Helena, Sir Victor. Good afternoon."

Then he was gone—and Miss Stuart looked at Miss Darrell, solemnly and long.

"There goes my last hope! Oh, my, why did I fetch down those wretched papers. All my ambitious dreams of being a baro—nette are knocked in the head now. He'll never be able to bear the sight of me again."

"I don't see that," Edith responded; "if a murder is committed, the world is pretty sure to know of it—its something not to be ignored. How deeply he seems to feel it too—in spite of his rank and wealth I pity him, Trixy."

"Pity him as much as you like, so that it is not the pity akin to love. I don't want you for a rival, Edie—besides I have other views for you."

"Indeed! The post of confidential maid when you are Lady Catheron?"

"Something better—the post of confidential sister. There! You needn't blush, I saw how the land lay from the first, and Charley isn't a bad fellow in spite of his laziness. The door bell again. Nothing but callers now until dark."

All Miss Stuart's masculine friends came dropping in successively, to institute the necessary inquiries as to the state of her health, after eight hours' steady dancing the preceding night. Edith's unsophisticated head ached with it all, and her tongue grew paralyzed with the platitudes of society. The gas was lit, and the dressing-bell ringing, before the last coat-tail disappeared.

As the young ladies, yawning drearily in each other's faces, turned to go up to their rooms, a servant entered, bearing two pasteboard boxes.

"With Sir Victor Catheron's compliments, Miss Beatrix, and brought by his man."

Each box was labelled with the owner's name. Trix opened hers with eager fingers. A lovely bouquet of white roses, calla lilies, and jasmine, lay within. Edith opened hers—another bouquet of white and scarlet camellias.

"For the opera," cried Trix, with sparkling eyes, "How good of him—how generous—how forgiving! After the papers and all! Sir Victor's a prince, or ought to be."

"Don't gush, Trixy," Edith said, "it grows tiresome. Why did he send you all white, I wonder? As emblematic of your spotless innocence and that sort of thing? And do I bear any affinity to 'La Dame aux Camellias?' I think you may still hope, Trix—if there be truth in the language of flowers."

Three hours later—fashionably late, of course—the Stuart party swept in state into their box. Mrs. Stuart, Miss Stuart Mr. Stuart, junior, and Miss Darrell. Miss Stuart dressed for some after "reception" in silvery blue silk, pearl ornaments in her hair, and a virginal white bouquet in her hand. Miss Darrell in the white muslin of last night, a scarlet opera cloak, and a bouquet of white and scarlet camellias. Charley lounging in the background, looking as usual, handsome of face, elegant of attire, and calmly and upliftedly unconscious of both.

The sweet singer was on the stage. Edith Darrell leaned forward, forgetting everything in a trance of delight. It seemed as though her very soul were carried away in the spell of that enchanting voice. A score of "double barrels" were turned to their box—Beatrix Stuart was an old story—but who was the dark beauty? As she sat, leaning forward, breathless, trance-bound, the singer vanished, the curtain fell.

"Oh!" it was a deep drawn sigh of pure delight. She drew back, lifted her impassioned eyes, and met the smiling ones of Sir Victor Catheron.

"You did not know I was here," he said. "You were so enraptured I would not speak. Once it would have enraptured me too, but I am afraid my rapturous days are past."

"Sir Victor Catheron speaks as though he were an octogenarian. I have heard it is 'good form' to outlive at twenty, every earthly emotion. Mr. Stuart yonder prides himself on having accomplished the feat I may be stupid, but I confess being blase, doesn't strike me in the light of an advantage?"

"But if blase be your normal state? I don't think I ever tried to cultivate the vanitas vanitatem style of thing, but if it will come? Our audience are enthusiastic enough—see! They have made her come back."

She came back, and held out both hands to the audience, and the pretty gesture, and the charming smile, redoubled the applause. Then silence fell, and softly and sweetly over that silence, floated the tender, pathetic words of "Way down upon the Swanee River." You might have heard a pin drop. Even Sir Victor looked moved. For Edith, she sat scarcely breathing—quivering with ecstasy. As the last note was sung, as the fair songster kissed hands and vanished, as the house arose from its spell, and re-rang with enthusiasm, Edith turned again to the young baronet, the brown eyes luminous with tears, the lips quivering. He bent above her, saying something, he could hardly have told what, himself—carried away for once in his life, by the witchery of two dark eyes.

Mr. Charles Stuart, standing in the background, beheld it all.

"Hard hit," he murmured to his mustache, but his face, as he gave his mother his arm, and led her forth, told nothing.

An old adorer escorted Miss Stuart. Miss Darrell and her camellias, came last, on the arm of the baronet.

That night, two brown eyes, haunted Sir Victor Catheron's slumbers—two brown eyes sparkling through unshed tears—two red lips trembling like the lips of a child.

For the owner of the eyes and lips, she put the camellias, carefully in water, and far away in the small hours went to bed and to sleep. And sleeping she dreamed, that all dressed in scarlet, and wearing a crown of scarlet camellias, she was standing up to be married to Sir Victor Catheron with Mr. Charley Stuart as officiating clergyman, when the door opened, and the murdered lady of Trixy's story came stalking in, and whirled her screaming away in her ghostly arms.

Too much excitement, champagne, and lobster salad had engendered the vision no doubt, but it certainly spoiled Miss Darrell's beauty sleep that night.