Esmeralda was getting almost tired of being surprised, and she looked at the appointments of the room, the table, with its snowy damask and glass and silver, amidst which the hot-house flowers seemed to be growing; at the two footmen, who moved to and fro noiselessly, and had handed the dishes as if they were automatons, with a kind of dull wonder.

“I thought it would be nice to be alone to-night,” said Lady Wyndover. “I hope you won’t find it dull, dear.”

Esmeralda laughed, as she thought of the solitude of Australia, and the hours she had spent in the hut with only Mother Melinda, asleep in a corner, for company.

Lady Wyndover ate a dinner that would have scarcely satisfied a healthy sparrow; but Esmeralda, upon whose appetite the cake had produced no effect, partook of everything that was offered to her, and Lady Wyndover leaned back and watched her, with a smile of wonder and envy. What the butler and footmen thought can be imagined; their faces, of course, showed nothing.

When the meal, which appeared to Esmeralda to be interminable, at last came to a close, Lady Wyndover took her back to the drawing-room.

“Choose the most comfortable chair, dear,” she said, as she reclined on a lounge. “I forgot to ask if you played or sung.”

“The piano, do you mean?” said Esmeralda. “No, I can’t. There was a piano in the Eldorado, and one or two of the men used to play; but there was no one to teach me.”

“The Eldorado? That was the school, I suppose. What a funny name for it!”

“The school?” said Esmeralda. “No, there isn’t any school. It was Dan MacGrath’s drinking saloon.”

Lady Wyndover half closed her eyes. It was really too dreadful.

“I used to sing sometimes,” Esmeralda continued. “I thought I could sing until”—she had nearly said, “until I heard The Rosebud,” but she checked herself. Somehow, she felt reluctant to mention him to Lady Wyndover.

“Perhaps you’d better take lessons,” said her ladyship, looking at her thoughtfully. “You are not too old. One quite forgets that you are so young; you are so tall and—and grown-uppish.”

“I don’t think any one could teach me,” said Esmeralda, calmly. “I shouldn’t have the patience. The Penman used to say that the only way to keep me sitting quiet would be to tie me down, hands and feet; and that wouldn’t do for learning the piano, would it?” and she laughed.

Lady Wyndover didn’t ask who and what “The Penman” was; she was almost exhausted by the series of shocks she had endured already.

“I saw that there was a habit among your things, and you said you rode from somewhere, with your luggage on your back, or was it on the saddle? You can ride, at any rate!”

“Yes, I can ride and shoot and swim—and that’s about all,” said Esmeralda. “Can you play the piano? I should like to hear you, if you’re not tired,” she added, glancing at her ladyship’s half-closed eyes and indolent attitude.

Lady Wyndover went to the piano, and played softly, and Esmeralda listened with her great eyes fixed dreamily on the player. Lady Wyndover, happening to look at her, was struck by their beauty, and the grace of the lithe form, which seemed to be listening, too, in its every limb, and she stopped suddenly, and went over to the chair beside her, and, taking Esmeralda’s hand, said, in almost awe-struck tones:

“My dear, do you know that you have a very great future before you?”

Esmeralda was still listening to the music, though it had ceased, and she started slightly as she looked round.

“Yes,” said Lady Wyndover, “you have the world before you. It will be at your feet—all society at your feet—before many weeks, days, have passed.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Esmeralda, with her brows drawn together.

Lady Wyndover patted her hand, and hesitated a moment, then she laughed softly.

“I might as well tell you now as leave you to find it out for yourself,” she said. “You must learn it, sooner or later—sooner!—and it isn’t fair to let you go into the midst of the battle unarmed. My dear child, you are not only one of the richest women in England, perhaps in the world, but—but”—she bit her lip softly; it was harder than she thought, this enlightening of the uncultivated girl—“but—well, you are not bad-looking; in fact, you are—” She paused, silenced by the grave, innocent eyes. “Well, you will have all the men making themselves idiots about you, and wanting to marry you.”

The color rose slowly to Esmeralda’s face.

“You are going to be the sensation of the season,” continued Lady Wyndover, “and,” with a little rueful laugh, “I have got a nice time before me, I can see! You will be a good girl, and do as I tell you, won’t you, dear? And you will tell me everything, will you not? You see, you are so—so young, and so—so fresh; and some of the men, who ought not to do so, will make love to you—the men you ought not to marry always do—and we shall have to be very careful! For, now I have seen you, I have set my heart upon your doing really great things, and—and— Do you understand me, dear?”

“I don’t know,” said Esmeralda, with a puzzled air. “Why should the men want to marry me? And what does it matter? I’m not obliged to marry any of them.”

Lady Wyndover laughed as if she were pleased.

“That is delightful! You couldn’t have said anything better!” she exclaimed in her low, thin voice. “That is exactly it! My dear child, you can marry whomsoever you please. Don’t forget that! Remember it always—always! With your face and fortune you can take the very best of them! Oh! I wonder how long Cerise will be?”

Esmeralda, as she lay drowsily falling asleep that night, felt as if she had exchanged places with some one else, and as if the girl of Three Star Camp had been, not herself, but some one of whom she had only heard or read; and the strange feeling grew more vivid as the days passed and the new life unfolded itself.

Lady Wyndover was far too clever a woman of the world to let her ward, the great Chetwynde heiress, be seen until she was properly clothed, and she kept herself and Esmeralda carefully secluded while Madame Cerise was at work. She would not even let Esmeralda ride in the park, though she begged to be allowed to do so, and Lady Wyndover was bound to admit that the habit could defy criticism.

“No, dear,” she said to the puzzled Esmeralda, “you must keep out of sight until Cerise is ready. If you were to be seen in the Row, people would insist upon knowing you—and the season is just commencing, and there are plenty of people up already—and I don’t want you to appear until you can do so to the fullest advantage. You must be content, for a few days, with a ride in the brougham—you couldn’t keep the window-shades up, I suppose?—and with my society alone. Oh! yes, you can walk before breakfast, in the park; no one is up until after twelve; but you must take Thomas or Barker.”

“Why?” demanded Esmeralda, amazedly.

“To take care of you, my dear.”

Esmeralda laughed.

“Barker might take me to take care of her,” she said; “and I don’t think Thomas, for all he’s tall as a lamp-post, would be much use in a row. He looks as if he’d break off if he bent too suddenly. Besides, there never is any row, is there? It always looks so quiet when we drive through. And those policemen—what are they for? No. I won’t have Barker or Thomas, and I’ll go alone—if you won’t come with me.”

Lady Wyndover almost shrieked.

“I go out before breakfast, walking in the park! My dear child! It would kill me, I really believe.”

“Don’t you believe it,” said Esmeralda. “Just try it, and risk it, some morning.” And she went out of the room with her clear, ringing laugh.

This was about a week after her arrival, and she sallied out next morning—much to the amazement of the house-maid, who was cleaning the steps—and made her way into the park.

It was a lovely spring day, and as she looked at the trees and listened to the birds, she thought, very naturally, of Three Star and the folk she had left behind her. She had already written to Varley Howard, and was wondering how soon she could get an answer. She wanted to know how they all were, and if they missed her. Twice in the curiously spelled letter she had reminded her old guardian of his promise to take her back if she should be unhappy.

She was not altogether unhappy yet; but she was feeling just a little dull, notwithstanding the novelty of her surroundings. She was getting used to the luxury and splendor of Lady Wyndover’s house, and just a tiny bit tired of driving to shops and buying endless things—dresses, hats, jackets, ornaments—which sometimes seemed to her downright ugly, but which Lady Wyndover assured her were the right things. Once or twice they had gone to a jeweler’s in Bond Street, and bought some jewels, which Esmeralda had admired, but anything but enthusiastically, and, of course, with no appreciation of their value. As she walked along the side of the Row, with her light, graceful gait, utterly unconscious of the admiring gaze of the few persons whom she passed, she was picturing to herself the camp, with its crowd of rough miners, and hearing the click of the pick and the rattle of the “cradle.”

There were one or two early riders on the tan-laid course, and after awhile, she stopped, and with her hand resting lightly on the iron rail, watched them as they rode by. Presently she saw, approaching the spot where she stood, a lady and gentleman, and something about them attracted her attention. The gentleman was tall and slim, and singularly handsome, but not with the beauty of the barber’s wax figure, though his features were almost as regular. He was dark, with grave and rather sad eyes; and he rode a hard-looking chestnut.

Esmeralda just glanced at him, and then, woman-like, transferred all her attention to the lady; and as she looked, a little thrill of admiration ran through her; that tribute to another woman’s beauty which a beautiful, generous woman is always ready to pay.

The lady was fair—but genuinely, not artistically fair, like Lady Wyndover—and she was so graceful and supple that she seemed part and parcel of the horse on which she rode. And there was a kind of proud, imperial air about her which struck Esmeralda, though she did not fully grasp it.

Esmeralda looked at her and the horse—a clean-cut thorough-bred—admiringly, and at the latter a little enviously. How soon would Lady Wyndover let her ride? What a time that Madame Cerise was over those stupid dresses! And what did it matter whether people saw her or not!

The pair rode slowly up to her, the gentleman bending slightly toward the lady, and talking in a low tone, she listening with eyes slightly downcast, and with a faint smile curving her proud lips. It was evident, even to Esmeralda, that they were absorbed in each other, and regardless of everything going on around them; and she was not surprised when both horses, ridden with a loose rein, started and reared at a dog which ran suddenly across the ride.

The gentleman had his horse in hand, and checked it in a moment, but the lady was not so prompt, and the high-spirited thorough-bred, taking advantage of its mistress’s confusion, sprung aside and reared again.

“Take care!” said the gentleman, quietly enough, but gravely. “You are very near the rail.”

She was so near that the horse’s hoofs seemed to be just above Esmeralda’s head, and she drew back a step, still watching intently.

She knew what the horse wanted—a sharp little cut between the ears, and a downward tug of the snaffle—and she waited for these to be administered. But the lady, though she looked so exquisite in her well-fitting habit, did not seem to know what was required, and the horse, master of the situation, took advantage, and rose again.

The gentleman was fully occupied with his own animal, the groom was a long way behind, and Esmeralda, who knew a horse and its tricks as thoroughly as it is possible to know them, saw that, unless the lady received some assistance, she would be thrown, and, not improbably, right across the rails.

She hesitated a moment, then she slipped under the rail, and taking a firm grip of the bridle, just above the bit, forced the animal on to its feet.

“Take him by the snaffle, not the curb,” she said in her low, clear voice.

The lady had her reins bunched up after the manner of ladies, but eventually got hold of the snaffle ones. Esmeralda held on with what looked like perfect ease, though the horse tried to rear all it knew, until the rider had regained control; then she let go the bridle, and was about to pass under the rail again, when the gentleman rode up to her, and taking off his hat, said:

“Thank you! Thank you very much!”

His dark face was slightly flushed, and his eyes, as they rested on Esmeralda’s, seemed to glow as she had never seen any other man’s.

“That’s all right,” she said in her calm way.

“It was not only kind—it was exceedingly brave of you,” he went on in a low voice. “He might have come down upon you!”

Esmeralda looked at the horse, not contemptuously but contemplatively.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I should have been too quick for him. I should have stepped aside.”

He seemed struck by her coolness, and the absence of any embarrassment on her part, and, with his hat still in his hand, leaned forward in his saddle and looked at her fixedly, after the manner of men when they feel that they ought to say something and do not know what.

The lady had not yet spoken, but had sat erect in her saddle, looking steadily, with a kind of subdued hauteur on her beautiful face. At this juncture, as Esmeralda and the gentleman gazed at each other, the lady spoke.

“It was extremely kind and brave of you,” she said, “and I am quite sure I should have been off if you had not come to my assistance. Thank you—very much.”

The words were right enough—well chosen and gracefully spoken—and yet there was something in the tone in which they were said that jarred upon Esmeralda, and caused her to raise her head almost defiantly and resentfully.

The tone was cold, almost icily so, the manner that of an empress graciously thanking an inferior.

“That horse is too much for you,” she said, with the faint drawl which had always brought her subjects at Three Star to their knees. “I should advise you to sell him.”

The lady smiled. One knows the smile so well; half amused, half contemptuous, and cutting as a whip.

“Thank you for your advice—as well as your assistance,” she said, with a faint lisp. “Shall we go on?”

The gentleman started slightly; then he leaned forward, and murmured to Esmeralda, “Thank you, once more,” and the two rode away.

And Esmeralda stood looking after them, little guessing that she had met the man and the woman who were to work the happiness and the misery of her life!