ess, a sworn friend of the graceless Jacky.

"You hear, Julia; you are to whip him at once?" says Roger.

"Whip him!" says Mrs. Beaufort, resentfully. "Indeed I shall not. I
never whipped one of them in my life, and I never shall."

"You'd be afraid," says Dicky Browne. "You should see Julia when the
Boodie attacks her; she literally goes into her boots, and stays there.
It is, indeed, a pitiable exhibition. By-the-by, does anybody want
dinner; because, if so, he may as well go and dress. It is quite
half-past six."

CHAPTER XIII.

"A vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast."

TIME, as a rushing wind, slips by, and brings us Dulce's ball. The night
is lovely and balmy as any evening in the Summer months gone by, though
now September shakes the leaves to their fall. A little breeze sweeps up
from the ocean, where the "lights around the shore" show mystical and
bright; while overhead, all down the steeps of heaven, myriad stars are
set, to flood the sleeping world with their cold, clear beauty.

Upon the walls, and all along the balconies, lie patches of broken
moonshine; and in the garden the pale beams revel and kiss the buds
until they wake; and "all flowers that blow by day come forth, as t'were
high noon."

In the library the lamps are lowered. Nobody has come down-stairs yet,
and the footman, giving the last lingering touch to the little sweet
gossiping fire that warns them of Winter's approach, turns to leave the
room. On the threshold, however, he stands aside to let Miss Vibart
enter.

She is dressed in a white satin gown, creamy in shade, and rather severe
in its folds. Some pale water-lilies lie upon it, as though cast there
by some lucky chance, and cling to it lovingly, as if glad to have found
so soft a resting place. There is no flower in her hair, and no jewels
anywhere, except three rows of priceless pearls, that clasp her slender
throat. Throwing her gloves and fan upon the centre table, she walks
slowly to a mirror, and examines herself somewhat critically.

As if ungratefully dissatisfied with the lovely vision it presents to
her, she turns away again, with an impatient sigh, and trifles absently
with a paper knife near her. There is a discontented line about her
mouth, a wistful, restless expression in her eyes. She moves slowly,
too, as if gladness is far from her, and shows, in every glance and
movement, a strange amount of languor.

As thoug