The invitations for Mrs. Vernon's lawn-party had been issued at least a fortnight, and but few people had declined them.

It was well known that she gave charming entertainments, and people were always eager to attend. A lawn-party, too, was so romantic, "too sweet for anything," declared the young women who adored those out-of-door entertainments where the most flagrant flirtations were possible, and where the plainest faces acquired a certain beauty from the blended light of lamp-light and moonlight, and the flickering leaf-shadows cast by the over-arching trees.

Older people dreaded the night-air and the dew, but to these the drawing-rooms were always open, so that no one dreamed of declining Mrs. Vernon's elegant cards.

Lady Clive was present that evening, her fair and stately beauty, so like her brother's, thrown into perfect relief by a robe of blue and silver, with pale, gleaming pearls around her graceful throat and white arms.

Lady Vera wore white satin and tulle, with water-lilies here and there, a beautiful dress that was most becoming to her, and made her look regal as a young princess.

A flush of excitement glowed upon her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and restless with a strange look of expectancy and almost dread in their beautiful depths.

The constant thought in her mind was:

"I shall see my enemies to-night. What will be the result? They pretend to regard me as a perfect stranger. What shameless audacity. I cannot understand how they can carry it out so boldly. And yet God knows that but for my oath of vengeance I would never speak. Ivy might have my husband and welcome. Yet I would give much to know whose death it was I read in that American paper. Leslie Noble's father, perhaps, though I had some vague idea that he was dead long ago."

Colonel Lockhart is present too, this evening, ever watchful, ever near his darling, though without the least appearance of intrusiveness.

Other lovers take his place by her side, but as usual she is calm and cold to all.

She is done with love and lovers, she tells herself with sad self-pity.

All her future life will lie in the dun, gray twilight of sorrow.

It is late in the evening before Colonel Lockhart ventures to address her.

Then something in her glance has drawn him to her side, in spite of his determination not to intrude upon her.

Lady Eva Clarendon and Miss Montgomery are present, and both have laid some claims to his attention. In spite of herself, Lady Vera cannot keep the pain out of her eyes, and Philip, watching her with the keenness of love, is quick to see it. In a moment he is by her side.

"Will you promenade with me?" he asks, deferentially.

A sudden smile of irrepressible pleasure lights the beautiful face. She loves him dearly, and it is so hard to give him up.

Rising, she lays her white hand on his arm, and they move away together down a quiet path under the shade of the leafy trees hung with gayly-colored lamps, whose checkered light throws their faces now in brightness, now in shadow.

The scene, the hour, is full of romance. Tall marble vases here and there are crowded with fragrant flowers, whose sweetness makes breathing a perfect delight. The moon is at its full, pouring down a flood of pure white radiance that makes the glimmering light of the lamps seem garish and unnecessary. Soft music rises, blent with the sound of happy voices, and a nightingale has perched itself on a rose tree near by, and is

They walk slowly on, speaking little, but with hearts that tremble with mingled pain and pleasure. The presence of each to the other is perilously sweet. In his mind runs the refrain of a song she had sung that evening:

Suddenly, in turning a curve in the path, they come face to face with a couple walking from the opposite direction—Leslie Noble and his wife.

The small blonde is attired in an elaborate costume of white and green, and the snaky fire of emeralds blaze round her throat and wrists. Her pale eyes glare with a snaky anger, too, as they light upon the beautiful young countess, looking bride-like in her rich, white dress, and the white lace scarf that she has carelessly thrown over her golden hair.

With an impulsive movement Ivy disengages her hand from her husband's arm, and places herself directly in Vera's way, her pale eyes flashing with rage, her head held high, her slight figure drawn erect, making the most of her insignificant stature.

"Lady Fairvale," she exclaims, insolently, "they tell me you refuse to know me or my husband, or my mother. Will you tell me the reason why?"

There is a dead pause, and Leslie Noble tries to drag his wife away, but she defies him.

"I shall not go!" she answers, sharply. "I told you I would do it. I have asked this proud lady the reason of her scorn, and I am waiting for an answer."

Lady Vera faces her a moment in scornful silence, but her pallid cheeks, her intense gaze, and her curling lips, all betray the tumult in her breast. She turns to Captain Lockhart, with a soul's despair in her lovely eyes.

"Philip, will you go away, and leave me alone with this woman?" she asks, pleadingly.

It seems to him that Vera does not know what is best for herself. How can he go away, and leave her to bear the brunt of this coarse woman's fury alone?

"Forgive me for refusing you, dear," he whispers back, "but it is better that I should stay. I cannot leave you without a friend by your side."

A look of futile despair flashes over the lovely face, but she urges him no more. Her eyes turn from his handsome, tender face to meet Ivy's angry, insolent gaze.

"I ask you again, Lady Fairvale," exclaims the small fury, "why do you refuse to speak to us?"

"Oh, God, give me strength," Lady Vera prays, silently, "to keep the oath of vengeance made to my dying father!"

The memory of her parent's cruel wrongs flashes into her mind and steels her heart. She remembers her mother's broken heart, her father's ruined life, her own joyless, slavish girlhood, driven by these two women who now stand glaring stonily upon her, for Mrs. Cleveland, coming in search of her daughter, has become a sudden and amazed spectator of the curious scene.

"I will tell why I hold myself above you," Lady Vera answers, in a voice that quivers with scornful indignation. "It is because you are false and vile—a guilty woman, and a shameless sinner!"

"How dare you traduce me thus?" Mrs. Noble shrieks, in anger and amazement.

"I dare, because I speak the truth before God," her enemy answers, fearlessly. "How dare you claim to be Leslie Noble's wife, when you know that I, his first wife, Vera Campbell, am living?"