Otho Maury joined the theater party to see “Trilby,” and devoted himself to the beautiful brown-eyed Alva Beresford, who looked like a young princess, and accepted his devotion with the careless patronage of one who knows that homage is her due.

It was her first meeting with Otho, and she read him at sight, and despised him accordingly, perhaps fathoming his designs on her fortune as she had already fathomed Maybelle’s efforts to insnare St. George.

The Beresfords tolerated Maybelle without admiring her, and they were not pleased with the rumor that St. George was the young girl’s suitor. They had higher views for the noble, handsome son of the house.

So perhaps it was with a spice of malice toward Maybelle that Alva said, gayly, in a pause between the acts:

“Do you see how sober mamma looks? She had a great fright this morning.”

“Alva!” cried that lady, with a reproving nod; but her daughter, who was at times very volatile, laughed at her, and continued:

“She received her first letter from my brother, written on shipboard, and mailed at Queenstown. He perpetrated a terrible joke on mamma, declaring that he is in love at last.”

She saw the hot color flame into Maybelle’s cheeks, and continued, maliciously:

“St. George is contemplating a shocking mÉsalliance. He is in love, he says, with a pretty little nobody, poor as poverty, and wild as a deer. He intended to postpone his confession until his return a month hence, and beg our consent to his marriage, but his heart is so full he can not wait. He begs mamma to write and give him some hope that she will approve his choice.”

“Who is she?” Mrs. Vere de Vere inquired, trying to keep the blank look out of her face, her feelings stirred for Maybelle’s sake.

“He did not tell us her name or home, much to mamma’s regret, as if she only knew where to find her she would go and buy off her claims on St. George before he returns.”

“Alva! Alva!” cried her mother, remonstratingly; but the daughter, who really regarded the whole affair as a huge joke of her brother, who seemed still but a boy to her maturer age, simply bubbled over with laughter, and continued:

“As it is, mamma is seriously contemplating an immediate trip across ‘the pond’ to persuade her boy out of his fancy, or to detain him abroad until his lovely charmer wearies of waiting his return and bestows her affections elsewhere.”

At her light, merry tone every one laughed, and Mrs. Van Dorn said, consolingly:

“I dare say it is only some pretty little actress, that he will forget in a week.”

“I only hope so,” sighed Mrs. Beresford; and then Mrs. Van Dorn, pitying her embarrassment, turned the conversation into other channels.

They talked of books and art, and now Mrs. Beresford could turn the tables on mischievous Alva.

“I shall punish Alva finely for telling my secret woes!” she exclaimed.

Every one turned to her eagerly, and she continued:

“You see, Alva is painting a Cupid, but she can not find a face to please her; and yesterday I saw a little salesgirl—in your father’s store, by the way, Miss Maury—who had an ideal face for the picture. Such a face! all dimples and roses, blue eyes, and rings of golden hair on the graceful boyish head. And her smile—it was something to dream of were one a man—saucy, sweet, enchanting—such a smile as Cupid himself might wear when drawing his bow to transfix a heart. Well,” drawing a long breath, “I meant to go to-morrow morning and secure this little beauty as a model for Alva’s Cupid, but to punish her now I shall not do so, so the charming picture will never be painted.”

“You cruel mamma, I shall go and find her myself to-morrow, and you will be balked of your revenge!” exclaimed Alva, with sparkling eyes; and for the rest of the time she could think of nothing but the lovely face she was going to secure for her Cupid.

Otho whispered to Maybelle:

“It must have been Floy that she saw at father’s store.”

“Yes,” she answered; and exulted in her heart that the fair Cupid face had lost its roses, the blue eyes their happy light, the rosy mouth its witching smile, all faded in death.

Then the curtain raised again, and they turned to watch the mimic woes of “Trilby” and her lover.

Otho watched with dull, glazed eyes, that saw through all the glare and brightness the face of one lost to him forever, and when the actors recited the griefs of “Pauvre Trilby,” his heart echoed “Pauvre Floy!”