One morning Eugene Mallard informed his young wife at the breakfast-table that he had invited a party of friends from the adjoining city, and had just received word that they would be with them that day. This was sorrowful news to Ida, for she realized that she would see less of her husband when they came. But he seemed to await their arrival in a fever of impatience.

While she was wondering how many there would be in the party, her husband said, as if in answer to the unexpressed thought:

"There will be six in the party—Mrs. Staples and her two daughters, Dora and Louisa, Captain Drury, Arthur Hollis, and—and Vivian Deane."

Ida looked up quickly as her husband pronounced the last name. Was it only her fancy, or did he turn away abruptly?

Somehow she could not rid herself of the fancy.

Then suddenly it occurred to her that she had heard the name, Vivian Deane, before. She remembered the conversation well.

While their former guests were there, she had been sitting in the rose-embowered veranda one day, while two of them passed on the lawn, and the fragments of their conversation floated up to her.

"I am surprised to find that Vivian Deane is not here," said one.

"Indeed! I would have been more surprised if she had been here," said the other.

They were idle words, almost meaningless, as far as she was concerned, but the name, Vivian Deane, clung to her for many days afterward. This was the last morning she would have with her husband. It was generally his custom to smoke in the grounds after breakfast. If she walked over the lawn she might be able to have a little chat with him.

She made a tour of the grounds, but to her surprise she did not see Eugene Mallard. Perhaps he was detained in the library writing letters. A little brook ran through a far corner of the grounds, and on either side of it tall laurel bushes grew.

Would life ever be any different for her? Would fate be always as unkind as now? Bitter tears, which she could not restrain, sprung to her eyes and coursed down her cheeks.

She tried to stop their flow, but she could not, though she realized that they would be a sorry object before her husband's guests. At that moment she heard the sound of footsteps.

Looking through the bushes she saw two of the servants walking leisurely along, one carrying a basket of newly gathered fruit, and the other a basket of freshly cut roses.

Was it fate that caused one of them to say:

"Let us not return to the house just yet. The morning is warm and fine, why not sit down here under the shade of this tree and tie the roses into bunches? I can do it as well here as in the house."

Whereupon they leisurely proceeded to seat themselves.

"It isn't the same house since master brought home his bride," said the other. "It's nothing but company, company, all the time. Now we are to have another new lot of guests."

"And guess who is invited this time," said her companion.

"Mr. Mallard seems to know everybody in the country, so it would be a pretty hard guess," laughed the girl.

"Well," returned the other, "as you are not so good at guessing, I may as well tell you—it is Miss Vivian Deane."

"Pray, who is she?" asked the girl who was tying the roses.

"Oh, I forgot you were not here long enough to know about her. Well, I will tell you. She is a young girl who lives a few miles away in a magnificent house called Deane Castle. She is as beautiful as a dream, and as heartless as she is beautiful. She has a doll-like pink-and-white face, big blue eyes, and a wealth of flaxen curls. Though she looks like an angel, a bigger devil in woman's form never lived.

"She was a great favorite with old Eugene Mallard, the uncle, and his fond wish was that his favorite nephew should fall in love with and marry the pretty girl. But, bless you, the young man had ideas of his own."

"Who else is coming?" was the next question.

"A lady and her two daughters. They used to be dead in love with Mr. Mallard, until they found it was useless. They were more sensible, however, than Vivian Deane. They turned their attention elsewhere, and they are still looking for eligible husbands."

Ida May's heart throbbed wildly. Now she knew why her husband's face had flushed as he mentioned the name of Vivian Deane. And this was the young girl whom she was so soon to meet!

Ida felt nervous at the very thought of the ordeal before her. She knew she must be in the drawing-room to welcome his guests. Her husband would expect that of her.

Drying her tears, though her heart was heavy indeed, the young wife stole back quietly to the house, and up to her own room. When she had removed the traces of tears, she looked with pitiful wistfulness at the face which the mirror reflected.

How long would it take this Vivian Deane, who loved her husband so madly, to discover that he was most unhappy in his marriage?

There was a light tap on the door, and in answer to her "Come in" one of the maids entered the room.

"If you please, Mrs. Mallard, your husband would like to have you come down into the drawing-room. He says the guests are likely to arrive at any moment."

"Say that I will be down directly," she replied, and her voice sounded so hoarse and unnatural that she feared the girl would notice her emotion.

"Would you like me to help you arrange your toilet, ma'am?" she asked, still holding the door knob in her hand.

Her toilet! she had not thought of it, so deeply had she been engrossed in her thoughts. Yes, she must make every effort to look well, because the eyes of her rival would be upon her.

"Yes, you may help me if you will," she said, wistfully. And when she was dressed and standing before her mirror, she was so nervous she could hardly stand. The maid noticed her trembling.

"You are ill, my lady," she cried, in alarm; "your face has grown very pale. Do let me bring you a glass of wine!"

"No," replied her young mistress; "it is only a momentary pain. I will be better presently."

As the maid watched, Ida's face grew from deathly pale to a flushed appearance, and her hands were burning hot.

"I think I must go and see the housekeeper. I am sure Mrs. Mallard is not fit to receive guests. She is very ill," she said to herself.

"If you only felt as well as you looked, my lady," said the girl, aloud and admiringly.

"Do you think I look well, Marie?" she asked, with a pitiful eagerness in her voice.

"Oh, ma'am, if I dared speak the truth without being accused of flattery, I would say I never saw any-one so beautiful in all my life!"

"Do I look more beautiful than Vivian Deane?" was the question that rose to her lips. But she checked the words just in time. At that moment another maid tapped at the door, and inquired if her mistress would soon be down.

"Yes," returned Ida. "I am coming directly."

As she uttered the words, she heard the sound of carriage wheels. By a great effort, she nerved herself for the ordeal.

"Why, how foolish I am!" she said, with a nervous little laugh. But somehow a premonition of coming evil crept over her which she could not shake off.