an engaging smile, she said:

"This is indeed an unexpected pleasure, Mr. Peveril, and I am ever so
much obliged to Mr. Langdon for bringing you. Did he know, I wonder,
that you were an old friend of mine, as well as of Mr. Owen's? No!
Then the surprise is all the pleasanter. Oh! there is mamma, and she
will be delighted to meet you again. Mamma, dear, here is our old
friend, Mr. Peveril. So pleased, and hope we shall see you often this
winter."

[Illustration: PEVERIL FINDS MARY AGAIN]

Other newly arrived guests demanding Mrs. Owen's attention at this
moment, Peveril found himself borne away by her mother, who had
greeted him effusively, and now seemed determined to learn everything
concerning his Western life to its minutest details. To accomplish
this she led him to a corner of the conservatory for what she was
pleased to term an uninterrupted talk of old times, but which really
meant the propounding of a series of questions on her part and the
giving of evasive answers on his.

While Peveril was wondering how he should escape, a hush fell on the
outer assembly, and some one began to sing. At first sound of the
voice the young man started and listened attentively.

"Who is she?" he asked.

"Nobody in particular," responded Mrs. Bonnifay; "only a girl whom
Rose met when she was studying music in Germany. I fancy she spent her
last cent on her musical education, which, I fear, won't do her much
good, after all; for, as you must notice, she is utterly lacking in
style. She is dreadfully poor now, and earns a living by singing in
private houses--all her voice is really fit for, you know. So Rose
takes pity on her, and has her in once in a while. Why, really, they
are giving her an encore! How kind of them; and yet they say the most
wealthy are the most heartless. But you are not going, Mr. Peveril? I
haven't asked you half--"

Peveril was already out of the conservatory and making his way towards
the piano, as though irresistibly fascinated. For her encore the
singer was giving a simple ballad that had been very popular some
years before. The last time Peveril heard it was when cruising along a
shore of Lake Superior, and it had come to him from somewhere up in
the red-stained cliffs.

At last he had found Mary Darrell--"his Mary," as he called her--in
quick resentment of the smiling throng about him, who _paid_ her to
sing for them.

He did not speak to her then, nor allow her to see him, but when, with
h