Imagine Lady Clive's delight when she learns that her brother is to marry her favorite, Lady Vera.

"It is what I most wished upon earth," she says, "but I had despaired of ever having my heart's desire. You never acted much like lovers, you two."

"You see I never intended to marry, so I did not encourage lovers, then," Lady Vera explains.

"And now?" Lady Clive inquires, with a roguish twinkle of her bright, blue eyes.

"Now I have changed my mind," the countess exclaims, evasively.

"Lovely woman's divine prerogative," laughs her friend. "But do you know that malicious people will say that you have quite thrown yourself away in marrying a plain, untitled American?"

"I am quite indifferent to what they will say," the young countess replies, serenely. "I shall have secured my own happiness, and that is the main point. For the rest, I am not anxious over titles. You know I am part American myself."

"Yes, I know, but this is the first time I have ever heard you allude to it," Lady Clive replies. "I fancied you were ashamed of the Yankee strain in your blood."

The sensitive color rushes warmly into Lady Vera's cheek.

"I was," she admits, "but I had no need to be. My mother was one of the fairest, sweetest, and purest of America's daughters. Yet I had a prejudice against the people of her native land and mine, a girl's prejudice that made me unjust to the many because I hated a few. Some day I will tell you about my life in America, Lady Clive, and you will understand me better, perhaps."

"Shall you go back to the United States with Phil, or shall you prefer a life in England?" Lady Clive inquires.

"We have not settled that yet," the young girl answers, blushing.

Her face has grown very thoughtful as she speaks. A moment later she asks, in an altered voice:

"Who were those American people whom you met in Switzerland, Lady Clive?"

Lady Clive seemed to reflect.

"You mean those vulgarly rich people?" she inquires.

"Yes."

"My dear, I have quite forgotten what they were called. I have such a poor memory for names. But no matter. You will see them in London this winter," Lady Clive replies.

And again the vexing question which she has forgotten since yesterday, recurs to Lady Vera's mind:

"What form will my vengeance take?"

But no faintest idea comes to her of the terrible truth. If anyone were to whisper it to her in these first hours of her great new happiness, it would surely strike her dead. The shock of pain would be too great for endurance.

But fate withholds the blow as yet, and some golden days of peace and happiness dawn for Lady Vera.

With Lady Clive's arrival she inaugurates a little reign of gaiety that rejoices the heart of Mrs. Vance. She gives and receives invitations. Colonel Lockhart rides over daily to spend long hours by his lady's side, reading, singing, talking to each other in the low, sweet tones of lovers. Lord Gordon consoles himself with Miss Montgomery, who secretly confides to him that she "cannot imagine what Colonel Lockhart sees in that haughty Lady Fairvale."

"She is beautiful," Lord Gordon answers, loyal to his old love yet.

"I do not admire her style. She is too slim—too American in her looks," Miss Montgomery rejoins. She is inclined to embonpoint herself, and envies every slender woman she sees.

Lord Gordon does not dispute her charge. He is too wise for that. But in his heart he wonders why Lady Vera had reconsidered her rejection of his friend, and wishes that he had been the happy man blest by her preference.

Lady Vera, on her part, has quite forgotten the coquette's existence in her serene, new happiness. Philip is her love, her lord, her king. She forgets all else save him who holds her heart. The light comes back to her eyes, the roundness and color to her cheek. She is dazzlingly lovely in the new beauty that love brings to her face.

The days pass, and they begin to talk of going up to London. The lovely fall weather is over, and mists and rain obscure the sky. They are glad to huddle around the glowing fires in the luxurious rooms, and Lady Clive's thoughts begin to turn on the subject most dear to the fashionable woman's heart—new dresses.

"Vera, you will lay aside your mourning, dear, I hope," she says. "Do you know that those black dresses make you look too sad and thoughtful for your years? Do send Worth an order for something brighter—will you not?"

"I will have some white dresses, I think," Lady Vera promises.

"Some of those sweet embroidered things!" Lady Clive exclaims, enthusiastically. "She will look lovely in them—don't you think so, Philip?"

"She looks lovely in anything," answers the loyal lover, and Lady Vera shivers and represses a sigh. Now and then a shadow from the nearing future falls darkly over her spirit. The memory of her vow of vengeance falls like an incubus over her spirit. What will Philip say to this strange vow of hers, she asks herself over and over.

She gives Worth carte blanche for the dresses, and in a few weeks they go up to London, already filling up with fashion and beauty. No one knows how regretfully Lady Vera looks back upon the happy hours she has spent at Fairvale Park with her happy lover. They see that her face is graver, but they do not guess her thoughts. How should they? No one dreams of that oath of vengeance bequeathed her by her dead father. No one knows how often she whispers to herself in the still watches of the wakeful nights:

"Soon I shall be face to face with Marcia Cleveland, and must punish her for her wicked sins. How shall I strike her best? What form will my vengeance take?"

Invitations began to pour in upon them as soon as they were fairly settled at Clive House. Lady Clive decides to attend Lady Spencer's grand ball.

Sir Harry objects.

"There will be a crush," he says. "Lady Spencer always asks everybody."

"Precisely why I am going," responds his vivacious wife. "Crowds always amuse me. Besides, we will see almost everybody who will be here for the season."

"Your countrymen, those rich Americans, will be there," Sir Harry insinuates, maliciously.

"I can stand that, too," Lady Clive retorts. "I am not to be daunted by trifles. Besides, I want Philip and Vera to see those people."

Lady Vera says not a word, but her heart beats high, and there is some little triumph mingled with her thoughts.

"Will Mrs. Cleveland and her daughter know me?" she asks herself. "Will they recognize the poor girl whom they injured and insulted so cruelly in the wealthy and honored Countess of Fairvale?"

She selects one of her loveliest dresses—a silvery white brocade, trimmed with a broidery and fringe of gleaming pearls. No jewels mar the rounded whiteness of her perfect arms and stately throat. The waving, golden hair is piled high upon her graceful head, with no ornament save a cluster of velvety white pansies.

"They say that my enemies' jewels are almost barbaric in their splendor. I will show them that I am lovely enough to leave my jewels at home," she tells herself, with some little girlish triumph.