The invitations for the merry-making were at length printed and forwarded to the favored guests, but the family were not to go to Wyoming for a week or so, and meantime, Mrs. Goddard devoutly hoped that the weather would change and send them a fine snowstorm, so that there would be good sleighing during their sojourn in the country.

She had her wish—everything seemed to favor the schemes of this crafty woman, for, three days later, there came a severe storm, which lasted as many more, and when at length the sun shone again there lay on the ground more than a foot of snow on a level, thus giving promise of rare enjoyment upon runners and behind spirited horses and musical bells.

At last the day of their departure arrived, and about ten o'clock, Mrs. Goddard and Edith, well wrapped in furs and robes, were driven over the well-trodden roads, in a hansome sleigh, and behind a pair of fine horses, toward Middlesex Falls.

It was only about an hour's drive, and upon their arrival they found the Goddards' beautiful country residence in fine order, with blazing fires in several of the rooms.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Weld, had attended to all the details of preparation, and was complimented by both Mr. and Mrs. Goddard. In appearance the housekeeper was very peculiar, very tall and very stout, and in no way graceful in form or feature. Mrs. Goddard voted her as "a perfect fright," with her eyes concealed behind large, dark-blue glasses. She had been employed through the agent of an intelligence office, and had come highly recommended. A close observer would have noted many oddities about her; and Edith, coming suddenly upon her in her own apartment, had reason to suspect that the housekeeper was not what she seemed—in fact, that she was disguised.

Noiselessly Mrs. Weld went about her duties, her footfalls dropping as quietly as the snow. On one occasion, arriving unexpectedly within hearing of her master and mistress, she heard him entreating her to give him possession of a certain document. This Mrs. Goddard refused until he had performed some act which, as it was apparent from the conversation, she had long been urging upon him as a duty.

Fearing discovery, Mrs. Weld did not wait to hear more, but silently walked away.

A few busy days succeeded, and then the guests began to arrive at Wyoming. The housekeeper seemed to take a great fancy to Edith, and the latter cheerfully assisted her in many ways. Various amusements were planned for the guests. The weather was cold, but fine; the sleighing continued to be excellent, and the gay company at Wyoming kept up their exciting round of pleasure both day and night.

A theatrical performance, planned by Mrs. Goddard, was one of the amusements arranged for the entertainment of the guests. On the afternoon of the day set for the presentation of the little dramatic episode, a great packing case arrived from the city, and was taken directly to madam's rooms.

A few minutes later, Edith was requested to go to her, and, upon presenting herself at the door of her boudoir, was drawn mysteriously inside, and the door locked.

"Come," said madam, with a curious smile, as she led the way into the chamber beyond, "I want you to assist me in unpacking something."

"Certainly, I shall be very glad to help you," the young girl replied, with cheerful acquiescence.

"It is one of the costumes that is to be worn this evening, and must be handled very carefully," Mrs. Goddard explained.

As she spoke, she cut the cords binding the great box, and, lifting the cover, revealed some articles enveloped in quantities of white tissue paper.

"Take it out!" commanded madam, indicating the upper package.

Edith obeyed, and, upon removing the spotless wrappings, a beautiful skirt of white satin, richly trimmed with lace of an exquisite pattern, was revealed.

"Oh, how lovely!" exclaimed the young girl, as shaking it carefully out, she laid the dainty robe upon the bed.

Next came the waist, or corsage, which was also a marvel of artistic taste and beauty.

This was laid against the skirt when the costume, thus complete, was a perfect delight to the eye.

"It looks like a bride's dress," Edith observed, as she gazed, admiringly, upon it.

"You are right! It is for the bride who figures in our play to-night," said madam. "This must be the veil, I think," she concluded, lifting a large box from the case, and passing it to her companion.

Edith removed the cover, and uttered an involuntary cry of delight, for before her there lay a great mass of finest tulle, made up into a bridal veil, and surmounted by a coronet of white waxen orange-blossoms.

An examination of two other boxes disclosed a pair of white satin boots, embroidered with pearls, and a pair of long white kid gloves.

"Everything is exquisite, and so complete," murmured Edith, as she laid them all out beside the dress, and then stood gazing in wrapt admiration upon the outfit.

"Yes, of course, the bride will be the most conspicuous figure—the cynosure of all eyes, in fact—so she would need to be as complete and perfect as possible," Mrs. Goddard explained, but watching the girl, warily, out of the corners of her eyes.

"Who is going to wear it?" Edith inquired, as she caressingly straightened out a spray of orange blossoms that had caught in a mesh of the lace.

Madam's eyes gleamed strangely at the question.

"Miss Kerby takes the part of the heroine of the play," she answered, "whom, by the way, I called Edith, because I like the name so much. I did not think you would mind."

"Oh, no," said the girl, absently. Then, with a little start, she exclaimed, as she lifted something from the box from which the gloves had been taken: "But what is this?"

It was a small half-circle of fine white gauze, edged with a fringe of frosted silver, while a tiny chain of the same material was attached to each end.

"Oh! that is the mask," said Mrs. Goddard.

"The mask?" repeated Edith, surprised.

"Yes; I don't wonder you look astonished, to find such a thing among the outfit of a bride," said madam, with a peculiar little laugh; "but although it is a profound secret to everybody outside the actors, I will explain it to you, as the time is so near. You understand this is a play that I have myself written."

"Yes."

"Well, I have entitled it 'The Masked Bridal,' and it is a very cunningly devised plot, on the part of a pair of lovers whose obdurate parents refuse to allow them to marry," Madam explained. "Edith Lancaster is an American girl, and Henri Bernard is a Frenchman. They have a couple of friends whose wedding is set for a certain date, and who plan to help them outwit the parents of Edith and Henri. The scene is, of course, laid in Paris, where everybody knows a marriage must be contracted in church. The friends of the two unfortunate lovers send out their cards, announcing their approaching nuptials, and also the fact that they will both be masked during the ceremony."

"How strange!" Edith murmured.

"Yes, it is both a novel and an extravagant idea," Mrs. Goddard assented; "but, of course, nobody minds that in a play—the more extravagant and unreal, the better it suits the public nowadays. Well, the parents and friends of the couple naturally object to this arrangement, but they finally carry their point. Everything is arranged, and the wedding-day arrives. Only the parents and a few friends are supposed to be present, and, at the appointed hour, the bridal party—consisting of the ushers and four bridesmaids, a maid-of-honor, and the bride, leaning upon her father's arm, proceed slowly to the altar, where they are met by the groom, best man, and clergyman. Then comes the ceremony, which seems just as real as if it were a bona-fide marriage, you know; and when the young couple turn to leave the church, as husband and wife, they remove their masks, and behold! the truth is revealed. There is, of course, great astonishment, and some dismay manifested on the part of the obdurate parents, who are among the invited guests; but the deed is done—it would not do to make a scene or any disturbance in church, and so they are forced to make the best of the affair, and accept the situation."

"But what becomes of the couple who planned all this for their friends?" Edith inquired.

"Oh, they were privately married half an hour earlier, and come in at a rear door just in season to follow the bridal party down the aisle, and join in the wedding-feast at home."

"It is a very strange plot—a very peculiar conception," murmured Edith, musingly.

"Yes, it is very Frenchy, and extremely unique, and will be carried out splendidly, if nothing unforeseen occurs to mar the acting, for the amateurs I have chosen are all very good. But now I must run down to see that everything is all right for the evening, before I dress. By the way," she added, as if the thought had just occurred to her, "I would like you to put on something pretty, and come to help me in the dressing-room during the play. Have you a white dress here?"

"Yes; it is not a very modern one, but it was nice in its day," Edith replied.

"Very well; I shall not mind the cut of it, if it is only white," said madam. "Now I must run. You can ring for some one to take away this rubbish," she concluded, glancing at the boxes and papers that were strewn about the room; then she went quickly out.

Edith obeyed her, and remained until the room was once more in order, after which she went up to her own chamber to ascertain if the dress, of which she had spoken, needed anything done to it before it could be worn.

Unpacking her trunk, she drew a box from the bottom, from which she took a pretty Lansdown dress, which she had worn at the wedding of one of her friends nearly two years previous. She had nice skirts, and a pair of pretty white slippers to go with it, and although it was, as she had stated, somewhat out of date, it was really a very dainty costume.

She laid everything out upon the bed, in readiness for the evening, and then went down to her dinner, which she always took with the housekeeper before the family meal was served.

Edith found Mrs. Weld looking unusually nice—although she was always a model of neatness in her attire—in a handsome black silk, with folds of soft, creamy lace across her ample breast, while upon her head she wore a fashionable lace cap, adorned with dainty bows of white ribbon.

"Oh! how very nice you are looking," Edith exclaimed, as she entered the room. "What a lovely piece of silk your dress is made of, and your cap is very pretty."

"I do believe," she added, to herself, "that she would be quite good looking if it were not for those horrid moles and dreadful blue glasses."

"Thank you, child," the woman responded, a queer little smile lurking about her mouth. "Of course, I had to make a special effort for such an occasion as this."

"If you would only take off your glasses, Mrs. Weld," said the young girl, as she leaned forward, trying to look into her eyes. "Couldn't you, just for this evening?"

"No, indeed, Miss Edith," hastily returned the housekeeper, her color deepening a trifle under the sallow tinge upon her cheeks. "With all the extra lights, I should be blinded."

"But you have such lovely eyes—"

"How do you know?" demanded Mrs. Weld, regarding her companion curiously.

"Partly by guess—partly by observation," said Edith, laughing. "Let me prove it," she continued, playfully, as she deftly captured the obnoxious spectacles, and then looked mischievously straight into the beautiful but startled orbs thus disclosed.

"Child! child! what are you doing?" exclaimed the woman, in a nervous tone, as she tried to get possession of her property again. "Pray, give them back to me at once."

But Edith playfully evaded her, and clasped them in her hands behind her.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she cried, in a voice of merry triumph. "They are remarkably beautiful, and no one would ever believe there was anything the matter with them. Oh! I love such eyes as yours, Mrs. Weld—they are such a delicious color—so clear, so soft, and expressive."

And Edith, inspired by a sudden impulse, leaned forward and kissed the woman on the forehead, just between the eyes which she had been so admiring.

Mrs. Weld seemed to be strangely agitated by this affectionate little act.

Tears sprang into her eyes, and her lips quivered with emotion for a moment.

Then she put out her arms and clasped the beautiful girl in a fond embrace, and softly returned her caress.

"You are a lovable little darling—every inch of you," she said, with sudden fervor.

"What a mutual admiration society we have constituted ourselves, Mrs. Weld! But, I am sure, I am very happy to know that there is some one in the world who feels so tenderly toward me."

"No one who knew you could help it, my dear," gently returned the woman, "and I shall always remember you very tenderly, for you have been so kind and helpful to me in many ways since we have been here. I suppose the affair to-night will wind up the frolic here," she went on, thoughtfully. "You will go your way, I shall go mine, and we may never meet again; but, I shall never forget you, Miss Allen—"

"Why, Mrs. Weld! how strangely you appear to-night!" Edith involuntarily interposed. "You do not seem like yourself."

"I know it, child; but the Goddards expect to return to town to-morrow, and I may not have an opportunity to see you again alone," returned the housekeeper, with a strange smile. "I do not want you to forget me, either," she went on, drawing a little box from her pocket, "so I am going to give you a souvenir to take away with you, if you will do me the favor to accept it."

She slipped the tiny box into Edith's hand as she concluded.

More and more surprised, the fair girl opened it, and uttered a low cry of admiration as she beheld its contents. Within, on a bed of spotless cotton, there lay a gold chain of very delicate workmanship, and suspended from it, by the stem, as fresh and green, apparently, as if it had that moment been plucked from its native soil, was a shamrock, in the heart of which there gleamed a small diamond of purest water.

"Why, Mrs. Weld, how beautiful!" exclaimed Edith, flushing with pleasure; "but—but—isn't the gift a little extravagant for me?"

"You are worthy of a stone ten times the size of that," said her companion, smiling; "but, if you mean to imply that I have impoverished myself to purchase it for you, do not fear; for it was a little ornament that I used to wear when I was a girl, so it costs me nothing but the pleasure of giving it to you."

"Thank you, a thousand times!" returned the happy girl, with starting tears, "and I shall prize it all the more for that very reason. Now, pray pardon me," she added, flushing, as she returned the glasses she had so playfully captured, "I am afraid I was a little rude to remove them without your permission."

"Never mind, dear; you have done no harm," said the housekeeper, as she restored them to their place. "Come, now, we must have our dinner, or I shall be late, and there must be no mistakes to-night, of all times."

When the meal was finished, Mrs. Weld hastened away to attend to her numerous duties, while Edith went slowly upstairs to dress herself for the evening.

"There is something very, very queer about Mrs. Weld," she mused. "I do not believe she is what she appears at all. She has come into this house for some mysterious purpose—as mysterious, I believe, as the people who have employed her."