Dazzling vistas of gorgeous rooms; a blaze of light and flowers everywhere: men and women in festive attire; over all, the throb and swell of the gay, sweet, maddening dance-music.

Lady Spencer's ball is in full blast, and as Sir Harry Clive predicted, it is a "crush." But after all everyone seems to be enjoying it, even Mrs. Noble, who, in a conspicuous position, and surrounded by a small circle of diamond-admirers, deems herself an acknowledged belle, and gives herself pleasant and coquettish little airs, accordingly.

"I have seen no one any prettier than I am," she confides to her mother, in a delighted whisper. "If that Lady Fairvale is here she cannot be a very great beauty. Doubtless she has been greatly overrated. I fancy that girl over there in the pink satin and opals must be she. You observe she has fair hair with dark eyes."

"No; for that is Lady Alice Fordham, I am told," Mrs. Cleveland answers. "I do not think the beauty has arrived yet."

"Staying late in order to create a sensation," Mrs. Noble sneers, then returning to her own admirers, forgets the distasteful subject for awhile in airing her own graces with the laudable intent of aggravating her husband, who has retired to a distant part of the room in supreme disgust.

But suddenly in Mrs. Noble's vicinity an eager whisper runs from lip to lip, all eyes turn in one direction, a lady and gentleman advancing down the center of the room are the cynosure of all eyes—Lady Fairvale and Colonel Lockhart. Mrs. Noble catches her breath in unwilling admiration.

For surely since Adam and Eve were paired in the Garden of Eden, no more beautiful pair had been created than these two!

Colonel Lockhart, to humor a whim of his sister's, appeared in the splendid and becoming uniform of a colonel in the United States Army. His martial form and handsome face appeared princely in his becoming garb, and his fine, dark-blue eyes were sparkling with pride and happiness as they rested on the lovely girl who hung upon his arm with all the confidence of first, pure, innocent love.

"She is as lovely as a dream," Mrs. Cleveland had said to her daughter, and Ivy, with a gasp of envy, is fain to acknowledge the truth.

Tall, slenderly formed, with

with dark eyes radiating light beneath the drooping, ebon lashes, with neck and arms moulded like the gleaming white marble of a sculptor's masterpiece, and guiltless of all adornment; with that silvery robe sweeping about the stately form as if the mist of the sea had enveloped her, Lady Vera looks and moves "a queen," gracious, lovely, smiling, as if the shadow of a great despair were not brooding over that golden head.

"Not a jewel, scarcely a flower, and yet more perfect than an artist's dream," Mrs. Cleveland whispers maliciously to her overbearing daughter.

But Ivy forgets to be angry at the little thrust. She stares at the beautiful vision, pale to the very lips.

"Leslie was right," she murmurs, like one dazed. "She frightens me, she is so like—so like that dead girl, Vera. Do you not see it, mamma?"

"Yes, but why should a mere chance likeness frighten you?" Mrs. Cleveland retorts, with subdued scorn.

Lady Vera has not seen her enemies yet. A group of admirers has closed around her, and for a little while she forgets that she will meet here the heartless and vindictive woman who destroyed the happiness of her parents. Her lover claims her hand for the dance, and she passes from their sight a little space.

Colonel Lockhart is radiant with joy and pride. The hum of admiration that follows his darling everywhere is music in his ears.

"My darling, do you see how every eye follows you?" he whispers, fondly.

But Lady Vera laughs archly in the happiness of her heart.

"You are mistaken. They are only admiring your uniform," she retorts, gayly, and the soldier thinks to himself that surely the smile upon the crimson lips is the gladdest and sweetest that ever rejoiced a lover's heart.

But it fades suddenly, the glad, sweet smile, and the blush upon the rounded cheek.

The dance is over, and they are lingering together by a stand of rare and fragrant flowers.

Suddenly the blush and smile fade together. A strange, stern look comes into the dark eyes, she drops the rose that her lover has just placed in her hand.

"Vera," he asks, looking anxiously at her, "what ails you, dear? You have grown so grave."

She looks up at him with strange eyes, from which the light and joy of a moment ago have faded as if they had never been.

"Philip, who is that woman over there, in the crimson brocade and rubies?" she asks, indicating the person by a slight inclination of her head.

His glance follows hers.

"That woman—yes, someone told me awhile ago that she was a countrywoman of mine, a Mrs. Cleveland. The one next her, in the diamonds, is her daughter."

Lady Vera is silent a moment, gazing steadily at the unconscious two.

She has recognized them instantly, and only asked the question to "make assurance doubly sure." Some of the bitterness in the heart rises up to her face. Her lips curl in scorn.

Colonel Lockhart regards her anxiously, puzzled by the inexplicable change in her face.

"What is it, Vera? Do you know these people?" he asks.

"How should I know them?" she asks, trying to throw off the weight that has fallen on her heart.

"Are you ill, then? These flowers are too heavy and sweet, perhaps. Shall I take you away?" he inquires.

"Not yet," she answers.

She continues gazing steadily at Mrs. Cleveland and her daughter. To her heart she is saying over and over:

"I am face to face with my enemies at last. What form will my vengeance take?"

In a moment that question that she has asked herself so many times is terribly answered.

Watching Ivy with her strange, intent gaze, she sees a gentleman come up to her side.

"Am I mad," she asks herself, with terrible calm despair, "or is it really Leslie Noble?"

Her lover unconsciously answers the silent question.

"You see that dark, handsome man, Vera?" he says. "His name is Leslie Noble. He is the husband of the lady in the diamonds."

She makes him no answer at first. Her eyes are wide and dark with horror. All in a moment she sees plainly the awful answer to the question so often asked of her shuddering heart.

"Vera, indeed you are ill. Let me take you away from the heavy scent of these flowers," her lover pleads.

She starts like one waking from a dreadful dream, and clings to his arm.

"Yes, take me away," she echoes, in a far-off voice. "There are too many flowers here, and the light hurts my eyes, and the music my heart."